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Jack Jackson of Jacksonville. 


—Page 23. 



100 STORIES 
IN BLACK. 


BY 


BRIDGES SMITH. 

i i 


A COLLECTION OF BRIGHT, BREEZY, HUMOROUS STORIES 
OF THE COLORED RACE AS SEEN IN THE SUNNY SOUTH. 


Copyright, 1910, by Bridges Smith. 


New York: 

J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

57 Bose Street, 



, S b L / S(o 'j 






WHY THIS BOOK. 


These one hundred stories were selected from the 
many that were written to portray certain phases of the 
negro character, and were written hurriedly, because they 
were a part of the daily routine work of a newspaper re- 
porter. This is my apology for their imperfections. 

I have endeavored to frame them, as near as possible, 
in the true dialect of the middle Georgia negro, and a 
visit to Yamacraw and Tybee, two negro settlements in 
Macon, and to the police court, will prove how well I 
have succeeded. 

The stories originally appeared from day to day in 
the Macon Daily Telegraph, but the demand — for which 
I am grateful — that they be printed in book form has in- 
duced me to thus give them to the public. This is my 
apology for publishing them. 


Macon, Ga. 















* 










100 STORIES IN BLACK 


A TYPICAL FIGHT. 

Half a dozen boys in a Yamacraw backyard. One pulls 
an orange out of his pocket, cuts a hole in it and begins 
to suck it. 

“Whar yer git dat owange, Jim?” 

“Git hit fum de gittin’ place, dat whar er gittit.” 

“Gimme piece er dat owange.” 

“Gi’ yer nuffin.” 

“Lemme sucker one time?” 

“Naw, disser In jin River owange, an’ hit sho is 
sweet.” 

“Wisher hadder owange,” and the others echoed the 
wish. 

“Jim steal dat owange, dat how he got hit,” said Pete. 

“Nawer didn’t neever,” said Jim lifting the orange 
from his mouth long enough to resent the accusation, 
“dat w’ite mans wot keep de sto’ down dar on Poplar 
Street, he guv hit ter me. He gi’ yer one efyer ax ’im.” 

“Wot! dat Eyetalyun wot got de groun’pea candy in 
de show case ?” 

Five boys looked wistfully at Jim as he sucked his 
orange. Five mouths watered, and five boys felt like 
licking him for his good luck. Pete especially. Pete be- 

7 


8 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


lieved that Jim had hooked the orange, and being mad, 
anyhow, because Jim had eaten it without so much as 
offering a suck to any of the boys, he started out to get 
even. 

“Wot yer do fur dat Eyetalyun wot mek ’im gi’ yer 
dat owange, Jim? Dem Eyetalyuns ainter guvvin 
owanges erway fur nuffin.” 

“Mine he sto’ w’en he went ter de bank ter tek he 
money, dat wotter dun,” says Jim. 

“Dat Eyetalyun lef’ you ter mine he sto’?” 

“Mer goodniss, man, ain’t dat wotter tol’ yer? Tol’ 
yer dat fo time, anner ainter gwinter tell yer no mo’.” 

“How many owange yer put in yer pockit w’ile de 
Eyetalyun gone ter de bank?” 

“Look hyere, Pete, yer talks lakker steal. Dun tol* 
yer dat de mans gi’ me de owange. Wot de matter wid 
yer?” 

“Jisser axin yer how many owange yer steal fum dat 
Eyetalyun.” 

“Efyer say datter ’gin me’n you sho gwineter hitch.” 

“Wot else yer tek sides de owange?” 

“Better lemme lone, Pete, you izzer breedin’ scabs : 
now.” 

“Gimme some er dat groun’pea candy, efyer got any 
lef’.” 

“Jiss keep on. Doan mine er buss yer brains out wid- 
der brick.” j 

“Er seed some big red apples in he sto’, yer git any er 
dem ?” 

“Iser gwineter holler fur de poleeces ef yer doan 
lemme lone. Er ainter bovrin’ yer, izzer Tom?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 9 

“How long yer ben off de chaingang, Jim? Tain’t 
ben long.” 

This was the turning point. Jim had wished to him- 
self that he had never seen that orange, and of all the 
things he regretted most was that he did not share it with 
his fellows. But regrets were brushed aside when Pete 
accused him of being on the chaingang. This had been 
a sore point with him ever since his time on the gang 
expired. So, when Pete asked him about it, then came 
the fight. 

When the case came up yesterday morning the story 
told by the witnesses and the fighters themselves was 
wholly unlike the actual facts. Each accused the other 
of cussing and drawing knives and bricks. But the court 
understood. It was an everyday fight between a couple 
of little negro thieves, and as they were too young to be 
put to work on the gang, they were given thirty days 
to carry water to the convicts. Except that this de- 
prived them of opportunity of roaming the streets that 
they might steal anything that they could reach, they 
cared no more for being sent to the gang than for taking 
a drink of water. 

THE TISSUE-PAPER BALL. 

They had a tissue-paper ball in Atlanta the other day, 
and Emma, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, read about 
it. She had been studying up something new for her 
society, the Tybee Social and Outing Club, and a ball 
with dresses made of tissue paper struck her as the very 
thing. Her employer entered into the spirit of the affair. 


10 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


seeing as how she could get about fifty cents each for 
the paper dresses that would cost her not over fifteen, 
and Emma brought up the matter before the society. This 
was two weeks ago, and last Saturday night was the 
time set for the ball, that being the only night the girls 
could get off to stay up late. 

The ball was pulled off at the house of Minerva Jack- > 
son in Sympathy Alley, her house having the largest I 
front room. 

Ten o’clock found the ball in motion. They were all 
there, including Slowfoot Sal, Whispering Annie, Fatty 
Fan, Delia, the Doper, and all the girls. Among the 
male members of the society were Hog- Eye Jake, Hare- 
lip Pete, Jack Jackson, of Jacksonville, Trimlin Dick, and 
all the other boys. The girls were dressed in red, white 
and blue, yellow, pink and tan tissue paper, artistically 
arranged to represent flowers. Slow-foot Sal was a lily 
of the valley; Whispering Annie was a morning glory; 
Fatty Fan appeared as a modest violet; Delia, the Doper, 
was a poppy, and so on. By the light of the lamp on the 
mantel, the scene was one of brilliancy. The music was 
furnished by Banjo Bill, who came all the way from 
Hawkinsville for the purpose. 

“Kinner haves de plejjer uvver two-step wid yer, Miss 
Dely ?” said Pete, bending low over the Doper. 

“Skuse me, Mister Pete, er izzer pickin mer comp’ny 
ter-night,” said Delia loftily. 

“Yer ack lak yer allers do, seemster me. Yer nevvy 
did haves nuff sense ter git out’n er shower er rain,” said 
Pete, as he crossed the room and bowed low before Fatty 
Fan. 



THE TISSUE PAPER BALL. 


11 


12 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Iz yer gotter podner, Fatty ?” he asked. 

“Skuse me, Mister Pete, iz yer talkin' ter er lady, er 
izyer talkin’ ter Slow-foot Sal?” 

“Yer sho haster skuse me, Fatty. Er giftin' mix u 
hyere ter-night, butter gwineter dance dis two-step e 
buss wide op’n.” 

Whispering Annie was playing the wallflower, and 
straight to her he went. 

“Skuse me, Miss Annie, ef yer ain’t ’gaged fur de nex' 
dance er sho would lak ter twis’ yer roun’ dis room er 
few.” 

“Yer de berry mans er benner waitin fur,” whispered 
Annie; “dem low-down niggers doan do nuffin but study 
'bout dem frocks deys got on. Er feels jis lakker ain’t 
got on nuffin, butter med up mer mine dat ef dey kin 
stan’ hit er sho gwineter go de limit. Jis slip dat ham 
roun’ mer waises an’ less show dese niggers wotter two- 
step is.” 

When the music stopped and the dancers had taken 
seats there were scraps of vari-colored paper on the floor. 
Perspiration had begun to leak from the merry dancers, 
and the paper costumes began to show signs of weaken- 
ing. Fatty Fan was beginning to be a sight. 

Up started the music again, and the partners took their 
places on the floor. There was a grab for waists and off 
came great wads of paper roses and violets and morning 
glories and poppies and things. The perspiration had 
gotten in its work of destruction. 

“Yer step on dat frock ergin, Jack Jackson, an' me'n 
you sho tie up,” said Sal. 

“Now look whot yer dun, Pete, yer tored mer waises 


1 100 STORIES IN BLACK 13 

clean off,” said Fatty Fan, who was now bathed in per- 
spiration. 

‘ "Er wush erder waited fur col’ weavver ter gi’ dis 
ball,” said Emma, who saw several dollars’ worth of 
paper work going to wreck, and none of it paid for. 

"Yer mouter knowed dat niggers gwineter sweat on er 
hot night lak dis, an’ yer mouter knowed dat hit tek mo’n 
paper ter kivver er fat oomans lak me. Yer ain’t got de 
sense yer wuz bawned wid nohow.” This from Fatty 
Fan, who was thinking of how she was going to get 
home in the remnants of her costume without being taken 
by the police. 

“Tain dat ! Hit de nigger. Yer nevvy kin mek nuffin 
butter nigger out’n er nigger,” retorted Emma, who was 
now disgusted. 

'Tek dat back,” shouted Sal, who hadn’t had a fight 
in a long time, and now she was stripped for the fray, so 
to speak, "eat dem wuds errer gwineter rammum down 
yer th’oat, yer stuck-up heffer.” 

No sooner was the word heffer used than Emma for- 
got her dignity and made a pass for Sal. Nothing could 
have suited the men better. They were happy over the 
prospect of a fight. 

"Stan back dar, Fatty, gi’ um room,” said one. 

"Doan nobody totch um, hit dey picnic,” said another. 
But Emma was no match for Sal, who had grown 
strong working on the chaingang. She gathered Emma 
up as if she had been a baby and tossed her against the 
mantelpiece, overturning the lamp and spilling the oil 
on the floor. The blaze caught the flimsy paper of such 
dresses as it could reach, and then came yells and 


14 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


screams, and a rush for the door. Packed against the 
door in their efforts to get out, the fire had but little 
chance to spread. A dress would catch and was gone 
in a second. But the fight was over. 

Under cover of the darkness the girls went home, and 
every one of them said hard words about Emma, who 
had designed the paper ball. It is possible that the club 
is broken up. There was a good deal of talk about bustin 
it, but Emma may be forgiven and the club saved. 


PRECIOUS JACKSON’S LAST BEAU. 

They met at the nickel club entertainment, and were 
formally introduced by the hostess, Mittie Mills, who was 
giving the thing for the benefit of her church. Dan, the 
Dandy, that was the name the boys give him in Sa- 
vannah, he said, was a worker in the crate factory before 
the fruit season opened, and right now he was shy a job. 
That didn’t matter to Precious Jackson, who was in need 
of a new beau. 

“Dooz yer lives hyers, Miss Precious? Er izyer er 
stranger lak er is?” i 

“Wese come fum Servanny ter dis place, butter ben 
hyere so long now datter feel lak hit mer home. Whar 
izyer home, Mister Dan ?” 

“Er come fum Servanny, too. Mebbe er knows some 
er yer kin down dair. Er used ter knowed evvybody in 
Servanny.” 

“Mer mar wuzzer Russul fo she git marrit, an’ mer 
par he wuk on de wauf whar deys roll de cott’n.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 15 

“Wunner ef yer mar wuz any kin ter Polly Russul 
wot used ter sell crarbs down ter de maakit?" 

“She de one. Er hyeerd mer mar say menyer time 
dat her sis Polly could sell mo’ crabs dan anybody, doan 
kyeer who dey wuz. Polly Russul mer mar's own lovin' 
sister. Dooz yer knows Polly Russul, Mister Dan?" 

“Er sho dooz. Er bode at her house w'enner in Ser- 
vanny. She de bess cook in de whole town. She sho 
kin cook. Er kin tas’e her cookin' right now. Dat 
oomans sho know how ter debbul er crarb. An' chick'n ! 
She kin brile er chick’n, er she kin smuvver er chick’n, 
tell hit melt in yer mout’. An’ rice! Time she tekker 
lotter rice an’ dish hit up with red peppers an' butter 
anner dasher onion in hit ter sorter seas’n good, hits go 
way honey an' gimme room! Er shame ter go ter her 
house kaser eat so much. Look lakker nevvy kin gitter 
nuff. Datter sho nuff good oomans, dat same Polly Rus- 
sul. Er love dat oomans. Dat oomans kin git de lass 
shut off’n mer back ef she want hit. Er walk down de 
daakis alley in Servanny ter do dat oomans er favor er 
sho would. An' she yer auntie ! Er sho is glad ter 
hyeers dat. W'en yer hyeers fum yer auntie, Miss Pre- 
cious ?" 

“Er seed her jiss now, she in de back room dar dishin 
up der ice cream ter de peoples hyere. Lemme go an' 
tell her dat you hyere, she be so glad ter seed yer, Mister 
Dan." 

“Ne'er mine, she busy. Er gotter be gwine, anyhow. 
Hit most twevver o'clock, anner toF er frenner mine dat- 
ter meet him down town fo twevver clock. So long, 
Miss Precious, er hopes ter haves de plejjur er " 


16 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


But Polly came into the room just at this time. She 
had dished ice cream at a nickel er plate until she was 
tired, and she had turned the job over to some one else 
for a while. 

“Look who hyere, Aunt Polly !” 


If only Precious had known, but she didn’t. Polly 


shot a glance at Dan, who had tried every way to slip 
out of the room, but it was too much crowded. 

“Look at me, yer triflin’ low-down scoun’le you ! Yer 
look lak yer benner stealin’ sheep, an’ de reezin’ yer ain 
ben is kase de sheep rund fum yer. Yer yaller-face 
Koun’, yer ol’ chick’n teef, yer scummer de airth ! You 
de man’s wot owes me ten dollars fur bodin’ yer. Yer 
eat up mer vittles an’ steal yer rags out’n de house w’en- 
ner gone down town, an’ yer slip out an’ alls dat dout 
payin’ me. Er tuck yer in mer house we’en yer wuz in 
rags, an yer so po’ fum stovvin, an’ yer ain hadder mou- 
fuller sump’n t’eat inner dunno w’en, an’ yer eats mer 
vittles an’ yer slip out’n de house on er Saddy night, an’ 
dis de fuss timer sot mer eye on yer, yer triflin’ vaga- 
bone yer. An’ hyere yer izzer warrin’ dem sto’ clo’es 
widder yaller streakit shut anner blue necktie anner par 
yaller shoes! Yer sho izzer low-down nigger! Er is 
sho gwineter haves yer restid. Go git de poleeses, Pre- 


cious.” 

But Dan was not arrested. He bent his head and made 
a dive for the door, scattering the guests who were look- 
ing on at the tongue-lashing Polly was giving him and 
enjoyed it. And that was the last of Dan. As for Pre- 
cious, she felt like crying, for she had lost another beau. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


17 


A SCENE IN YAMACRAW. 

Henrietta bent over her tub in the back yard, singing 
as she rubbed the clothes. In the house where she had 
left the baby lying on the bed to kick up its little black 
heels, her husband was sleeping. He was on the night 
shift in one of the railroad yards, and after his breakfast 
he went to bed. The child, tired of being left alone, be- 
gan to fret and from fretting went to crying, and from 
crying went to squalling. Then it was that Henrietta 
wiped her hands on her apron and went into the house 
to pacify the child so that it would not wake up her hus- 
band. The child was taken from the bed, the rocking 
chair sneaked out of the house, and on the far side of 
the house she began the task of getting the child to sleep. 
There is nothing like singing to rock the baby to sleep 
with, and she began in a low crooning tone: 

“Rocksy bye baby, in de tree top, 

Daddy gwine er hun-tin’ 

Ter gitter liT cooney skin 
Ter wrop de baby bunker in. 

W’en de win’ blow 
Der cradle gwinter rock; 

W’en de bough break 
De cradle gwineter falls. 

Git ter sleep, mer honey bunch, 

Yerl be er ainjil bye’n bye, 

Erl be er Babtiss teller die.” 

Over and over she sang this string. The baby hadn’t 
the slightest notion of going to sleep, and in its way it 
tried to keep up with its mother, putting in a word of 


18 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


the song now and then. So absorbed was Henrietta in 
thinking of something else that she had paid no attention 
to the baby. Suddenly she dropped her eyes on it and 
saw no signs of sleep. 

“Shot dem eyes ! Shot um er tell yer ! Gitter sleep 
dis minnit! Hyere er is stoppin’ mer wuk ter git yer 
sleep, an’ hyere yer is shootin’ off dat mout’ ! Shot dem 
eyes, an’ doan lemmer hafter tell yer no mo’.” 

And then over and over went the string of words she 
had heard in snatches of song somewhere. This went j 
on for some time, until she happened to look down at 
the baby, who had forgotten the last outburst of its 1 
mother’s temper, and was lying there contented, but with 
no idea of sleep. 

“Yer nasty, stinkin’, liT brat, didn’t er tell yer ter gitter 
sleep! Shot dem eyes er tell yer! Yer de hod haiditiss 
liT brat er evvy seed sence er been bawnded. Shot dem 
eyes an’ git right ter sleep, ef yer doan er gwineter spank 
yer good !” And once more Henrietta began the song. 

Again she ceased to rock and took another look at the 
child to find it sleepless. She jerked it up, turned it over 
her lap, and for a minute her hand flew up and down 
like a trip-hammer. 

“Shot dat mout’ ! Ef yer ain de mos’ aggervatin’ chile 
dat evvy wuz bawn. Hyere er got mer washin’ on, an’ 
hit mouty nigh twevver clock an’ yer ain sleep yit, an’ 
dar dat goo’fur nuttin’ daddy layin’ up dar in de baid 
jister knockin’ hit off. Us wimmens sho haves er hod 
time in dis wul.” 

But the child cried on, and with its squalling and Hen- 
rietta’s singing, which was louder than ever now, being 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


19 


mad with the child, the noise woke up Dick, and he ap- 
peared in the doorway with : 

Hen’retta, wot de namer de Lawd yer benner doin' 
ter dat chile? Hitter shame de way yer w’ip dot po’ liT 
in’cent t’ing.” 

‘Ef yer doan git back ter baid, Dick Johnson, er is 
: gwineter tek er sticker wood ter yer. Dis mer brat, an- 
ner is gwineter beat hit effer feel lak hit. Ef hit doan 
shot hit mout’ er is gwineter beat de debbul out’n hit too. 
Go back in dat house, er tell yer !” 

Dick disappears, but not to sleep. He goes back to 
study the situation. Henrietta had no right to talk that 
way to him. He asked her a civil question and she flew 
all to pieces. The more he thought over it the grosser 
the insult. In the meanwhile, Henrietta, now that she 
was mad with both the child and the daddy, was handling 
the baby roughly. 

“Dat de way wid dese yer triflin' menses. De oomans 
gotter dooz all de wuk, an’ nuss de baby, an' men’ all de 
clo’es, an’ cook all de vittles, an’ dooz evvy whicherway 
ter git 'long, an’ den dey’s git mad an’ squall at um jiss 
lak us wuz dogs! Er is sho gittin’ mouty ti’ed er all 
diss, er sho is.” 

Dick reappears in the doorway, and having been pre- 
vented from sleeping, and smarting under what he con- 
siders an insult, he says: 

“Ef yer wants ter tek yer spite out’n anybody, tek hit 
out’n me. Doan yer hit dat chile ergin! Ef yer do er 
tek upper stick anner buss yer brains out! Yer de low- 
downiss oomans er evvy seed nohow. Yer ain dun nuf- 
fin but beat dat po’ chile mouty nigh ter deff all dis maw- 


20 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


nin’, and de po’ liT t’ing ben cryin’ tell er jiss kain’t 
sleep. De debbul sho gwine ter git yer fur de way yer 
beat dat po’ chile. ,, 

This was about as much as Henrietta could stand. 
She threw the child down on the ground and picked up 
what is known to washwomen as a battling stick, and 
before Dick could realize it, he had received a whack 
over the head. He grabbed a brick, and she dared him 
to throw it. He saw the fire in her eye, and he dropped 
it. 

'‘Wot de namer Gawd de matter wid yer, Henrietta? 
Is yer gone bug house? Nevvy seed yer ack datter way 
afo ! Er gwine in de house an’ git mer ress now, an’ yer 
better lemme ’lone.” 

Henrietta resumed her washing at the tub, and then in 
a short time looked around to see what had become of 
the baby. There it was, lying flat on the ground in the 
hot sun, fast asleep. 

FALL STYLES. 

After breakfast conversation across the alley, from 
kitchen window to kitchen window. Both cooks waiting 
to clear away the table, and just waiting for the white 
folks to get through the meal. 

“How yer feelin’ dis mawnin’, Calline?” 

“Jiss tolluble, Sister Harris. Ain’ shot mer eyes de 
whole night long wid dis ol’ toof. Hit hut all night, an’ 
tain’t much better dis mawnin’, butter hadter come git 
de w’ite folkses brekfus.” 

“How come yer doan haves de ol’ snag juk out? Yer 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


21 


ain lak me. Er had dot oY snag out fo yer bat yer eye. 
De Bible say ef yer right han fen yer, cut hit off, anner 
eye fur er eye anner toof fer er toof. Dat me. Erder 
had dot ol’ snag out long ’go, datter would.” 

‘‘Wot yer reckin’ er hyeered de w’ite folks say lass 
night ?” 

“Er clar er dunno. Wot deys say, Sister Harris?” 

“Deys say de shawt sleev gwine outer style, an’ deys 
is gwineter haves um ter come over de han.” 

“Er sho gladder dat, Sister Calline, kase er nevvy did 
lak dat style. Er oomans look lak deys jiss come fum 
de washtub widder sleeve all roll up. Hit dooz fer dem 
wimmenses dat gotter om dat look lak sump’n, but dese 
yer gals dat ain got nuffin’ but skin’n bone sho looker 
plum sight. Deys look lak liT straws stickin’ out deys 
shoulder. Er jiss nachly spize er spinlin om er laig. 
Hit doan look decent ter me.” 

“Yer muss memmer, Sister Harris, dat de Lawd mek 
dem kiner wimmenses, an’ deys kain’t he’p hit. Dat de 
way de Lawd mekkum. He mek dem wot got de big om 
an’ de big laig sames He mek dem wid de om wot skin’n 
bone. Yer sho mussn’t mek fault wid wot de Lawd 
mek.” 

“Ain dat de trufe? Er furgit all dat. But He didn’t 
haves nuffin’ ter dooz wid dem shawt sleeve, anner reckin 
er kin sayes wotter please ’bout dem, anner izzer sayin’ 
hit right dis minnit. Dem shawt sleeves sho izzer 
scannle.” 

“Dat right, Sister Harris. Yer is plum right ’bout dat. 
Is de style gwineter be fur de liT gals ter war dem 
socks ?” 


22 


100 STORIES I NT BLACK 


“Er hyeerd de w’ite folks say dat de style gwineter be 
wussun dat nex’ year.” 

‘‘Fur de namer de Lawd! How deys gwineter mek- 
kum any wuss? Tell me dat. Er so sorry fur dem liT 
gals dat deys put dem socks on. Er seed um lass winter 
wid deys po’ liT laigs blue wid de col’. Is deys gwine- 
ter tek any mo’ does off um?” 

“Deys ain no tellin’ wot er oomans dooz ef hit de 
style. Ef de style say tek evvy ragger clo’es offum an 
lettum go in de street stiff stok nekkid, dar is some wim- 
menses dat gwineter dooz hit, doan kyeer ef hit kill de 
chile. Dunno wot de good Lawd gwineter dooz wid dem 
kiner wimmenses w’en deys died. Hit dooz look cuyus 
ter me dat dem folkses wot dooz mean w’ile deys is livin’ 
gotter wait tell deys died fo de git wot cornin’ ter um. 
Deys tell me dat de sinner gwineter go ter tor-ment an’ 
bun up in de fi’ry funniss, but deys kain’t git dat tell 
deys daid. Seem lak ter me dat now de time w’en deys 
ought ter be bunnin’ some. Er ax Bruvver Breedlove ter 
’splain dat ter me one day, an’ all he say is hit de Lawd’s 
will. Dat mouty po’ satterfaction. Effer gotter wait tel- 
ler daid for er bun up, er mout ez well be havin’ all de 
fun er kin fo er go daid.” 

“Dese preachers doan know evvyt’ing, Sister Harris. 
Deys mek out deys knows, but deys doan knows. But 
yer ain tol’ me wot de style fur de liT gals gwinter beed.” 

“Er hyeered de w’ite folkses say dat dey is gwineter 
mek de frock shawter in de skut an’ longer in de wais’es.” 

“Fur de lanner Goshen! Dat scan’lous! Hit sho is. 
Er tank de Lawd er ain got no chilluns, no gal chilluns, 
kase er sho heap ruvver seed um daid dan be follern de 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


23 


style lak deys gittin’ up dese days. Wot yer reckin 
de matter wid de peoples no how ? Is us all gone plum 
crazy? Hit look lak ter me dat evvy year us git crazy 
an’ crazy. Fuss noos yer knowed de wul gwineter come 
ter de een. Den whar yer gwineter be ?” 

“Ain dat de trufe? Er hyeered de w’ite folks callin' 
me. Deys is thoo brekfus, anner gotter go. So long, 
Calline.” 

“So long, Sister Harris. Er seed yer later.” 

HASLIT PETE. 

It was the noon hour, and the draymen had driven up 
to the usual place down the street to eat their dinner, 
and at the same time be in easy call of any one who 
might want any hauling done. 

“Any yer fellers hyeer ’bout Haslit Pete Sunday 
night?” asked Jim, the cut-rate drayman. 

“Yer is talkin’ ’bout Hare-lip Pete, de one dat talk 
thoo he nose, dat who yer talkin’ ’bout! He name ain 
Haslit Pete,” said Henry. 

“Dat wot dat Jack Jackson er Jacksons-villes call him. 
Wunner wot cummer Pete! Ain seed him inner coon’s 
age. Wuz dat nigger hyere Sundy?” 

“Dat wotter fixin’ ter tell yer now, ef yer ain heerd 
hit.” 

“Go long an tell hit. Wese ain hyeerd nuffin ’bout 
Pete.” 

“Sence dey shot up de Yamacraw Meffodis, so de pas- 
tor kin haves he suffocashun, Pete ain ben gwineter 


24 100 STORIES IN BLACK 


chu’ch tell lass Sundy. He tek him er botler dis bline 
tiger licker an’ he go ter de woods, way out in de coun- 
try, an' he jiss hit dat botler licker tell he git fullern er 
ol’ goat. He santer down de road tell he come ter er 
chu’ch. Dunno wot kiner chu’ch, but hitter chu’ch. Pete 
gotter noshun in he haid datter he ought ter go ter 
chu’ch, jiss lakker fool nigger wot drunk is gwineter 
dooz, and fuss noos yer know dar wuz Pete sottin’ up in 
dat chu’ch jiss lak he sot in de Fuss Meffodis down dar 
in Yamacraw. Pete sot dar an sorter th’ow he haid 
back lak he gwineter sleep. De preacher seed him w’en 
he fuss git in, but he mek out he ain noticin’ Pete. De 
preacher mans went on wid her sarmon, an’ gotter talkin’ 
’bout de miracles, sump’n ’bout de loaves and de fishes, 
an’ all dat, an fuss noos yer know Pete he sing out and 
say, ‘Mister, kinyer ’form er miracle?’ Wid dat de 
preacher gits down fum de pulpit an’ he walk up ter 
Pete, an’ he say easy lak, ‘Mer fren, dat all right ’bout 
dat, atter chu’ch er gwineter pray fur yer.’ Den he go 
back an’ gotter preachin’ ergin. Atter w’ile Pete he wake 
up, an’ he sing out ergin, ‘Say, mister, kinyer ’form er 
miracle?’ Cose Pete dunno wotter miracle is, an’ he 
doan kyeer ef he doan, but dot wot he hyeerd de mans 
say. De preacher git down fum de pulpit an’ go up ter 
whar Pete wuz, an’ he say, easy lak, ‘Mer fren, yer muss 
keep sorter quiet.’ Peter sorter lay back an’ sorter look 
lak he sleep, an atter w’ile he dooz jiss lakker mans wot 
drunk gwineter dooz, he riz up an’ he ax de preacher ef 
he kin ’form er miracle. De preacher he er gre’t big mans. \ 
He stop de sarmon an’ he step down out’n he pulpit, an’ 
he walk slowly ter whar Pete wuz. Den he look at Pete 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


25 


lak he sizin’ him up, an’ Pete he say, ‘Say, mister, kin 
yer ’form er miracle?’ De preacher he git upper liT 
closer, an’ he say, ‘Mer fren, er kain’t ’form no miracle, 
butter sho kin cast outer debbul.’ Wid dat de preacher 
he pick up Pete ber de scruffer de nek an’ he th’owed 
> Pete out’n de do’. Pete haid strack de bottom step ker- 
whack! an* dar he lay tell he chu’ch turnt out. Dat 
preacher mans sho did cast out dat debbul.” 

“Whar Pete now?” 

“Dey sont him ter hosspistol ter git he haid tied up, 
dat wot deys dun.” 

“Dat preacher sho dun Pete right. Er doan b’lieve no 
mans gwine ter chu’ch an’ doin’ datter way. Doan kyeer 
ef he is drunk, dar is plenty places ter go ’sides de 
chu’ch w’en yer gits drunk.” 

“Whar one er dem places?” 

“Yer git drunk an’ yer foun’ out mouty quick. Up 
dar whar de jedge ax yer whar yer got yer licker an’ wot 
mod yer git drunk.” 

“Ain dat de trufe ?” was the chorus. 


BEFORE-DAY AND LITTLEBIT. 

They were known as the Tybee Twins, but they were 
not twins, only neighbors. They were about the same 
size and the same age and the same color. Possibly they 
were ten years old, but that is a matter of guesswork, 
for Mandy, the mother of the boy, never kept account of 
the passing years, and Hildy, the mother of the girl, 
never cared. Both mothers were widows, and had lived 
adjoining lots for a long time ; both took in washing for 


26 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


their bread, and allowed their progeny to shift for them- 
selves, knowing that they would always turn up at rneal 
times. But this was before they got to running with 
larger children. Then their comings and goings were 
without regularity. 

“Hildy, is yer seed dem chilluns ’roun’ hyere sence 
deys eat deys brekfus ?” Mandy asked one morning. 

“Er ain laid mer eyes on dem chilluns inner dunno 
w’en. Er specs deys roun’ hyere summers. Foday! er 
Foday! Yer hyeer me callin’ yer. Come right hyere ter 
me, yer triflin scoun’le,” and Mandy called loudly for 
her boy. He was born just before day, and they say 
that is how he got his name. But Foday did not answer, 
and then Hildy yelled: 

“LiTbit! er LiTbit! Come ter yer mar, honey!” 

But Littlebit answered not. 

“Whar yer reckin dem chilluns got ter? Go ’long wid 
yer wuk, Hildy, deys be cornin’ home atter w’ile. Deys 
ain gone fur. Foday knowed better dan ter go fur,” and 
both returned to their tubs. 

An hour passed, and then Hildy happened to think of 
the children. She stopped washing and wiped her hands 
on her apron. Then she went to the fence and looked up 
and down the road. Then she called LiTbit. Still no 
answer. Mandy kept on at her tub, but Hildy was un- 
easy. 

“Wunner whar dem chilluns is. Er sho gwineter look 
fur dat chile er mine. Er tol’ Foday notter be tekkin dat 
chile off an’ stayin’ all day. Spec he tuck her down town, 
er cross de railroad. Gwineter be back atter w’ile, 
Mandy.” 






» 


28 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

As she passed out of the gate Mandy was heard to say 
to herself: 

“Dunno wot got inter Hildy dese lass gone week. She 
alls de time want dat chile in de yod. She want ter keep- 
er eye on her alls de time. Foday ain gwineter let de 
chile get hut. Datter mouty good boy, effer do sayes 
hit merself. He er fine boy, but he jiss lak he daddy. 
He daddy de bess nigger in Tybee, ef he did git drunk on 
Saddy night. He sho wuzzer good pervider. No bennin’ 
over de tub w’en dat nigger livin’. De railroad sho 
killer good nigger w’en deys rund over mer Pete.” 

She was still talking to herself when Foday came run- 
ning up. 

“Whar yer ben, yer triflin’ raskil?” she asked. 

“Er nevvy dun hit mar, please doan w’ip me, mar, er 
newy dun hit, er couldn’t he’p hit, oh ” 

Right then Mandy knew that something terrible had 
happened. She threw down the clothes she was washing, 
and with arms akimbo she spoke commandingly : 

“Stop dat crying, an’ tell me wot yer dun. Whar 
Li’l’bit?” 

“De train rund over her ; oh, mar, please doan w’ip me, 
er couldn’t he’p it. Er ” 

But Mandy had suspended judgment. She would see 
for herself, and off she hurried. She saw the crowd at 
a distance, and she fairly flew in that direction. There 
on the ground, surrounded by a crowd, and with Hildy 
bending over her and rubbing the little cold hands, was 
the mangled form of Li’l’bit. Mandy pushed her way 
through the crowd and knelt by the side of Hildy. 

“Mer po’ chile! Er keep tellin’ yer, Mandy, dat er 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


29 


oneasy ’bout de chile. Sump’n tol’ me dat mer chile daid. 
Hit musser ben de daid sperrit uvver daddy dat come 
cropin’ up ter me an’ w’isperin’ ‘go ter yer chile,’ an dot 
wot mek me oneasy lak. Efferder dun hit de fuss time 
dat sperrit w’isper ter me dis po’ chile erd be livin’ dis 

minnit. Er tol’ Foday notter tekker off ” 

“Ner mine ’bout Foday ! Er ten ter him w’enner gits 

ter him. Er sho gwineter beat dat boy ter deff ” 

“No, you are not,” said a gruff voice, that of a white 
man, who had heard Mandy’s threat, “you are not going 
to touch that boy. You ought to take that boy in your 
arms and thank the Lord for giving you a child like that. 
I saw the whole thing. That boy did everything anybody 
could do to keep the girl from running across the track. 
He risked his own life for her, and a boy who would do 
as he did, don’t care how black he is, can’t be whipped 
if I can help it. That boy is a little hero.” 

The effect was instantaneous. Such praise as that, 
coming from a white man, was unlooked for. The crowd 
for a minute couldn’t understand what makes a hero, 
whether white or black, but the white man had said Fo- 
day was not at fault, and there was not one to say aught 
against it. As for Mandy and Hildy, they arose and 
clasped each other in their arms and cried. Hildy cried 
in sorrow for the lost Li’l’bit; Mandy cried for joy. Fo- 
day was a hero, whatever that is. 

THE FORTUNE TELLER. 

All Yamacraw was in an uproar yesterday morning 
when Minerva made known that some time during the 


30 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


night her house had been broken open, and four dollars 
she had been saving up to buy winter clothes for her 
daughter had been stolen. The women gathered about 
her to hear all the particulars. They went to the window 
that had been prized open, and they looked for tracks. 
Then they went into the house and looked at the exact 
spot on the mantel-piece where the glass jar that con- 
tained the money had been taken from. 

“Some low down Tybee nigger dun dat sho’s yer bawn. 
Nunner dese Yamacraw niggers steal dat money fummer 
lone widder oomans lak dat.” This from Melinda, who 
put her trust in all that is Yamacraw. 

“Spec hit one er dese w’ite tramps wot all de time 
cornin’ thoo Yamacraw. Nigger ain gwineter steal fum- 
mer nigger ef he knows hit, anner jiss knowed he ainter 
gwineter steal fummer widder oomans.” This from Miz 
Passmore. 

“Tell yer wotter dooz, Sister Minervy, jiss put down 
evvyt’ing an’ go seed Miss Maggie Allen over yanner in 
Tybee. Alls yer gotter dooz is ter say: ‘Mis Maggie, 
deys broke in mer house lass night an’ deys tuck mer 
money, anner ainter skusin’ nobody. Dat all yer gotter 
dooz. She is gwine ter tell yer who buss dat winner 
op’n, who tuck dat money, whar hit tuck fum, how much 
money wuz dar, an’ yer seed ef yer doan git yer money 
back.” This was the advice of Sister Breedlove. 

“Ain dat de trufe,” said Becky, “anner knows wotter 
talkin’ ’bout. Yer knows dat nigger Bill wot wuk in de 
bue-ry! Bill buyed him er par er dese shiny packin’ 
levver shoes an’ gin six dollars fur um atter regler shoe 
sto’. Up on de mante-piece wuz sottin’ one er dese yer 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


31 


banks wot yer saves nickels in. Dat nigger save up fif- 
teen dollars, an" fool lak he keep hit in dat bank sottin' 
up dar on de mantel-piece. Nex' mawnin’ Bill fine de 
bank in de yod whar de booglar buss hit op’n widder 
hatchit. Dat med Bill so sick he 'bout ter do daid. He 
go ter Miss Maggie, an' he say: 'Miss Maggie.' An’ 
Miss Maggie she say, ‘Hooh!’ Bill say, ‘Deys buss op’n 
mer house lass night an' dey tuck mer li’P bank, an' dey 
buss dat op’n, an' dey tuck all mer money an' mer Sundy 
shoes.' Miss Maggie she say, ‘Sho’ nuff !' Bill say, 'Dey 
sho did.’ Miss Maggie say, 'Lemme look in yer han’.' 
She say, 'Lemme run de kyeerds.' Den she run de 
kyeerds. She say, ‘Er seed er tall black nigger widder 
skyar over de lef' eye.' Bill jump up, an’ he say, ‘Dat dat 
low down Sim Bailey.' But Miss Maggie doan pay no 
tenshun ter Bill, she jiss keep on runnin’ de kyeerds. She 
say, 'He fixin' ter go ter de baptisin' tomorrer mawnin', 
an' he gwineter war dem packin' levver shoes.' Dat all 
Bill want ter knowed. He run he han' in he pockit an’ 
he put down er quarter, an’ he say, 'Er sho’ 'bleege ter 
yer, Miss Maggie, Sim Bailey ain gwineter no babtisin' 
in mer packin' levver shoes, er tell yer dat!' Bill wuz 
at Sim Bailey's house fo day de nex’ mawnin'. He sorter 
crack op’n de do', an' dar wuz Sim puttin’ on dem shoes. 
Bill push de do' wide op'n an' step in. He say, 'Sim,' 
whar yer gwine so airly dis mawnin’?' Sim say, 'Er is 
gwineter go ter de babtisin’.' Bill he say, 'Wot kiner 
shoes yer gwineter goes in?' Sim say, 'Er gin er liT 
boy er dollar fur dese shoes, an effer doan mek no mis- 
tek, er is gwineter go in dese shoes.’ Bill he say, 'Yer 
sho’ mekker mistek, kase dey is mer shoes.’ Sim say, 


32 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


lak he gittin’ mad, ‘Dese mer shoes, kaser buyed urn 
fummer liT boy, an gi’ him er dollar fur urn.’ Bill say, 
‘Er dun ben ter Miss Maggie, an she say yer tuck dem 
shoes out’n mer house, an’ yer buss de bank, an’ yer got 
mer fifteen dollars.’ Wid dat Sim wuz skeered. He 
shuck dem shoes, an’ he pull ten dollars out’n he pockit. 
an’ he say he pay de ress jisses soons he git hit. Dem 
Tybee niggers sho skyeerder Miss Allen. Ef Bill got he 
money back an’ dem packin’ levver shoes wot cosses six 
dollars, yer sho git yer fo dollars, kase she gwineter tell 
yer who got dat money.” 

Nobody paid attention to Slowfoot Sal, as she sneaked 
out of the crowd and slipped into the house for about 
half a minute, and got in the crowd again. 

“Tain’t nunner mer bisniss,” she said, “but yer alls 
better look out how yer go skusin’ yer neighbors er steal- 
in’ yer money. Er knowed er heaper peoples ter git in 
trouble datter way.” 

“Er ain skuse nobody ! Er ain sayin’ nuffin’. Butter 
sho go ter seed dat Miss Maggie. Er hyeerd Sister 
Flowers tell ’bout wotter good forchun teller she is. Sis- 
ter Flowers say all de w’ite oomans go ter seed Miss 
Maggie, an’ she ain tellum no lie yit. Er sho git mer fo 
dollars, kase Ise gwine, jiss berry minnit, dat wotter 
dooz.” And Minerva went inside the house, followed by 
Slowfoot Sal and others. 

“Fo yer go, Mernervy, tekker good look, kaser jiss 
knowed yer doan wants no failin’ out wid yer neighbors. 
Spec dot money some whar yer laid hit down an’ dun 
furgit all ’bout hit. Er dooz datter way menyer time, 
an’ denner wants somebody ter kick me.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


33 


Minerva, without knowing why, took a look on the 
mantel, and there, under the little glass jar, was the four 
dollars. 

‘'Somebody ben in dis house an’ put dat money dar, 
deys sho did,” said Minerva. 

“Deys ain nobody ben in dat house sence we alls come 
out, not ez er seed. Is any yer alls seed er soul go in dis 
house sence us alls come out ?” asked Sal. 

No one had seen anybody go in the house. 

“Dat sho beat mer time,” said Minerva, examining the 
four dollars to see if they were the same that were taken. 

“Ain dat de trufe?” said Sal. 

THE STAR BOARDER. 

The boarders at the ranch of Melinda Howard had, on 
several occasions, complained among themselves that Me- 
linda was showing too many favors to the star boarder, 
one Rev. Jim Reynolds. There was no open revolt, and 
nothing was ever said to Melinda about it, except by way 
of hints, and hints never did go with Melinda. 

Shorty Sam was feeling rather puny yesterday, and for 
this reason did not get up until late, not intending to go 
to work. He sauntered downstairs after breakfast hour, 
and seeing the dining room door open, he walked in and 
saw the Rev. Jim eating a breakfast that was appetizing 
to say the least of it. 

Sam was surprised to see that there was so much good 
to eat in the house, more than anybody had ever seen 
before ; the Rev. Jim was surprised to see Sam, and Me- 


34 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


linda was surprised that Sam should be at home when 
she thought him at work. The sight of such a breakfast 
cured Sam of his complaint, and he sat down at the 
table. 

“We is dun brekfus, Mister Sam. How come yer 
didn’t come ter hit lak de uvver boders ?” 

“Er wuz feelin’ kiner puny dis mawnin’, anner wuz- 
zun gwineter wuk, but now er hongry.” Sam sat there, 
but Melinda made no movement toward providing him 
with any breakfast, and the Rev. Jim appeared too busy 
to offer to share his. 

“We haves regler hours at dis house, Mister Sam, fur 
brekfus, an’ hit dun pass de time fur brekfus. Er hopes 
yer be in time fur dinner.” Melinda sat there at the 
table, brushing the flies off the food for the preacher. 

“Er is one er yer boders, Miz Howard, anner wants 
some brekfus.” 

“Dun tor yer dat yer kain’t git no brekfus ef yer ain 
hyere ter de table in time, anner ainter gwineter tell yer 
ergin,” said Melinda. 

“Er pays mer bode bill evvy Saddy night regler. Er 
ain had no brekfus dis mawnin’, an’ bein ezzer izzer 
boder wot pay he bode, er gwineter git some brekfus dis 
mawnin’, anner is gwineter git jisses gooder brekfus ez 
dey is in dis house.” 

“How many mo’ time yer spec me ter tell yer dat yer 
ainter gwineter ter git no brekfus ef yer doan come ter 
de table at de regler time ? Er dun tol’ yer now !” 

“Er izzer peacebul mans. Er ain gwine roun’ troddin’ 
on er man’s toes ter raise er rucus. Er ain lookin’ fur 
trubble, butter tell yer right now effer doan git some 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


35 


brekfus, an’ git hit mouty quick, dar gwineter be er daid 
nigger preacher roun’ dis table ” 

“Gi’ de gemmun some er mer brekfus, Sister Howard, 
er is sho gotter plenty. Haves some er dis aigs, mer 
fren,” and the Rev. Jim went to shoveling the scrambled 
eggs into a plate for Sam. 

“Doan do dat, Bruvver Reynuls, er gi’ de mans sum- 
p’n t’eat ! Look lak he jiss spilin’ fur er fuss dis mawnin’. 
Hitter shame de way some niggers is raise.” Then she 
bustled around and found some ham and other things for 
: Sam, but the Rev. Jim scented trouble, and he kept in- 
i sisting on helping Sam to his many dishes, and Sam, as 
much out of pure meanness as hunger, raked everything 
into his plate. By the time Melinda had the extra break- 
fast ready, Sam had all of that which had been set before 
the preacher, whose appetite had been frightened away. 

“Is yer er Babtiss er Meffodis ?” asked Sam, busily en- 
gaged in eating. 

“Er izzer Babtiss minster er de gospil.” 

“Dooz yer squeal w’en wer shoot craps, er dooz yer 
drap yer money lakker mans ?” asked Sam, without look- 
ing at the man, and making the eggs and things disap- 
pear. 

“Er duzzun knowed wot yer mean ber dat. Er izzer 
Babtiss.” 

“Doan yer guv me nunner yer slack talk, ef yer dooz 
er buss yer in de snoot,” said Sam, as he reached over 
for more bread. 

“Sister Howard, er is jiss bleege ter go ter town ter 
ten ter dat bisniss you’n me wuz talkin’ ’bout. Er is 
sorry er gotter go, but hit gittin’ late. Er bidyer goo 


36 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


mawnin’, Mister Sam,” and the Rev. Jim was about to 
leave when Sam, who had demolished a big breakfast, 
arose and placed himself between the preacher and the 
door. It was his chance. 

“Er jiss gwineter tells yer, Miz Howard, de boders er 
diss house dun got ti’ed er dis preacher mans gittin’ all 
de aigs, an’ de hominy, an’ sich, an’ us is med upper 
mines dat ef dar is any aigs an’ sossidge an’ sich in diss 
house, us is sho gotter git some, an’ ef yer doan say dis 
minnit dat hit gwineter be datter way er is gwineter buss 
diss preacher wide op’n. De uvver boders gimme dat 
job, kase deys knowed dat er kin sho do de job right.” 

The Rev. Jim was a-tremble. He saw the danger and 
appealed to Melinda to make the promise. She, too, saw 
the fire in Sam’s eye, and she made the solemn promise 
that in the future all boarders would look alike to her. 
And thus was a tragedy averted. 


THE RIVAL SOCIETIES. 

As Minerva stood before the court, arrayed like a lily 
of the valley, with the golden monogram of MM serving 
as a fastener for the lace bandage around her throat, she 
was a picture. The court eyed her as the officer arranged 
the witnesses in a row, and otherwise got the machinery 
of justice in readiness for the pressing of the button to 
start it. 

“What is your name?” he asked. 

“Mer name? Who, me? Mernervy Hogan is mer 
name.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


37 


“ What do you do for a living, Minerva ?” 

“Who, me ? Ise seckerterry uv de M. M. S’iety, 
jedge. ,, 

“M. M. Society? What does M. M. stand for?” 

“De ’Malgermated Muvvers S’iety. We teks keer er 
der sick an’ guvs ’em nurrish-ment an’ buries ’em w’en 
dey daid.” 

“You mean the Amalgamated Mothers. Now, tell me 
about this trouble.” 

“Well, jedge, Iser gwineter tell yer de fuss uvvit, how 
hit kimmence. Dis hyer oomans name Mary Jane Brown 
is de seckerterry uv de Sweet Sisters er Yamacraw, an’ 
jedge, she jiss prejis ergin us, nuffin’ but prejis. Our 
s’iety teks keer er de sick an’ guvs ’em chick’n soup an’ 
apple jilly, an’ angil cake an’ two dollars er week tell dey 
gits well an’ strong ernuff ter go back ter wuk. All de 
Sweet Sisters er Yamacraw guvs izzer liT bitter beef 
soup an’ some cup cake an’ fifty cintser week tell de gits 
well an’ strong enuff ter go back ter wuk. Well, Miz 
Harris she move f’om Tybee fusser October an’ moves 
ter Yamacraw, an’ she tuck her mem’ship in de M. M.’s 
widder. No sooner dan she git settle in her house over 
in Yamacraw dan dishyer Mary Jane she hop onner ter 
jine de Sweet Sisters er Yamacraw. Miz Harris she say 
she b’longs ter de M. M. of Tybee. Jedge, yer jiss ax 
Miz Harris wot dishyer Mary Jane Brown say ’bout me 
an’ de M. M.’s.” 

Miz Harris was called upon for her testimony. 

“J edge, Ise gwineter tell yer de trufe, let de stars shine 
whar dey mout. I dun tol’ Mary Jane datter b’longs ter 
de Tybee s’iety anner payin’ ten cintser week dooze anner 


38 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


couldn’t ’ford ter jine ernudder s’iety tell de ol’ man 
gitser rise in he pay at de brickyod. Den she say, tu’n 
loose dat ol’ M. M., all it do is ter keep dat stuck-up Mer- 
nervy Hogin, an’ who she? Fo she gits ter be seeker- 
terry she wuzzer ben’in’ o’ de washtub anner tekkin in 
washin’ fur er livin’ dat who she wuz. An’ now look 
atter ! See how she dress up in dese yer mawnin’ robes 
an’ de sheet gowns an’ de forty dollar hat an’ tannin 
shoes an’ dese op’n face stockin’s an’ dese peeperboo shut 
waistes! An’ dat ol’ gal er hern guvvin linnun shower 
baffs an’ Cap’n Jinks potties. Dat gal woont speak ter 
er Yamacraw nigger any mo’. Jedge, dats de berry wuds 
Mary Jane said, anner got witnusses ter prove hit.” 

“Jedge, kinner speak enuvver wud?” asked Minerva. 

“Just one word, now.” 

“Jedge, yer orter know who Mary Jane wuz fo she 
gotter be seckerterry er de Sweet Sisters er Yamacraw. 
Down in de stockade, dar whar she wuzzer stayin’, an’ 
woffur? Fur stealin’ uvver boxer soap ! Dat berry same 
Mary Jane ! She didn’t haver rag ter her back, ef she did 
I hoper mer drap daid right hyere in mer tracks. Jiss 
go down ter Yamacraw now an’ look inner house. Look 
at dem picters er dem show wimmen on de wall, an’ dem 
table clovs an’ dem chiny dishes an’ dem shiny coffee 
pots an’ dem cut glass shooger bowls! Whar she git- 
tum? Fo she gotter be seckerterry dot ooman never 
went out’n town no furver dan Hawkins-ville. Now she 
gits on de train atter ridin’ down ter de deppo inner hack, 
an’ she goes clean to Chattynoogy. How come she kin 
do dat now, an’ she stayin’ down ter de stockade an’ ain’t 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 39 

got no clo’es fo she gotter be seckerterry er de Sweet 
Sisters er Yamacraw? Tell me dat.” 

The witnesses say that when Mary Jane and Minerva 
met after Miz Howard had carried the news from one 
to the other there was a lively fight, but the police ar- 
rived in time to prevent permanent injury. 

They were fined ten dollars each, and their respective 
societies paid their fines. 


SLOWFOOT SAL’S OUTING. 

Some little coolness had sprung up between Emma 
Davis, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, and Percival St. 
Clair, the chauffeur, since the night of the linen shower 
party, when Slowfoot Sal and her companions broke up 
the evening and stole all the linen presents. Emma had 
an idea that Percival had shown the white feather, and 
should have razored Jack Jackson, of Jacksonville, when 
he offered her the deadly insult of calling her out her 
name. It was, therefore, up to Percival to reinstate him- 
self in her good graces and renew the engagement. He 
had sent her boxes of molasses kisses and bottles of soda 
water, but there was no warm response, only a cold and 
formal “mucher bleege ter yer.” 

The other night he waylaid her on her way home, and 
told her to be ready at 9 o’clock, as he was coming to 
take her out to ride by moonlight. It seems that Perci- 
val’s employer was out of town that night, and Percival 
thought no one would ever find out that he took the auto 


40 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


out. He told Emma that ladies who rode in automobiles 
always wore a veil to keep the dust out, and this, tnought 
Percival, would be a sufficient disguise. Emma was ex- 
ceedingly happy, it being her first ride in such a thing, 
and Percival was fully and freely forgiven and became 
once more her affianced. 

It was unfortunate that their conversation was over- 
heard by a little black rascal, Foday, who had a grudge 
against Percival for not letting him ride one day, so he 
ran as fast as his legs could carry him, after slipping 
away from behind the fence, and carried the news to 
Slowfoot Sal. That Sal knew and understood, is shown 
by the subsequent events. 

Promptly at 9 o’clock the auto steamed up in front 
of Emma’s house, and a veiled figure entered the auto 
and it was off like a shot. That much is known, but 
Slowfoot Sal must tell the story, as she did the next 
morning to a friend of hers. 

“Er ainter gwineter nevvy quit laughin’ ’bout how wese 
git erway wid dat feller an dat gal. Dat li’F nigger 
hyeerd dat high-tone nigger tell Emma dat he gwineter 
come fur her at niner clock an’ ter war er veil. Soonser 
kin er hunts up Wisprin Annie an’ Haslit Pete, anner tel- 
lum wot dey gotter do. Denner tol’ um dat er oomans 
owed me some money an’ she gwineter pay me ter-mor- 
rer, an’ ef dey he’p me git even wid Emma er wuz gwine- 
ter sot up ter er swell supper at de rusteraw. We fix up- 
per note an wese puts in de note lak dis: ‘Dear Miss 
Emma, we is wotched, come ter bue-ry lane ber ha’f pass 
8 so we kin go ridin’,’ an’ wese stick de namer her feller 
down ter de bottom uvvit. Den wese git dat li’l’ nigger 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


41 


dot fotch us de noos ter tek dat note ter Emma’s house. 

“Denner gits Miz Breedlove ter loan me her veil, anner 
prance up ter Emma’s house anner sot down on de do’ 
step easy lak so her mar doan hyeers me. Er dun got 
Haslit Pete ter break upper sacker oP bottles an’ sprinkle 
de road in front er de house. Atter w’ile hyere comes de 
kairsene ile waggin cornin’ slow so hit woont mek any 
n’ise. Er slip out’n’ de yod anner gits in de thing, an’ 
Mister Saint Clair he jukker back dis way an’ jukker 
back dat way, an’ den we gitter move on us. 

“Dar wuzzer heaper dese orterbeels on de road. Wese 
meet um on de way an’ passum, an dar me er sottin up 
dar jisses bigs any w’ite oomans. Atter w’ile we git way 
out yanner somewhar, an’ Mister Saint Clair he shot off 
de steam an’ stop right dar in de road. He git out fum 
berhine dat w’eel wot he grab so w’en he runnin’ hit, an’ 
he come sot down on de seat wid me. He say, Miss Da- 
vis, kinner calls yer Emma lakker used ter? Er say, ef 
yer promise notter go wid dat Slowfoot Sal any mo’. He 
say, doggone dat Slowfoot Sal, er wouldn’t be cotch 
speakin ter dat gal. Er say, dey is tellin’ hit roun’ dat 
you’n Slowfoot gwineter git marrit. He say, datter lie, 
an’ yer kin tell who tol’ yer dat dat hit ain so. Er nevvy 
love but one oomans in mer life, an dat oomans is you. 
Den he sorter scrouge up ter me an’ hug me. Er nevvy 
let on, jiss let him hug me much’s he want, an’ he say 
he gwineter git me er ring anner watch anner dunno wot 
all he ainter gwineter git me. Er jiss let him keep on, 
an atter w’ile er say, look hyere, Mister Saint Clair, er 
sho gwineter tell Emma Davis ’bout yer tekkin me ter 
ride in dis orterbeel! Denner juk off de vail. Gen-tel- 


42 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


mens ! dat man wuz sho mad. Er sayes, yer knowes me, 
er is Slowfoot Sal, de beller Yamacraw, an ef yer gitter 
kickin’ up, er sho gwineter hut yer, wid mer razzer. 

“Wid dat he juk somp’n wide open, cotch holt de we’el 
an’ turn’t roun’. Talk ’bout runnin’! He sho mek dat 
orterbeel fly. He wanter lemme out on Fote street, but- 
ter say yer teks me ter mer house in Yamacraw, kase er 
wants dem big buck niggers ter seed me ridin’ inner or- 
terbeel. He kick lakker steer, but er tell him er is Slow- 
foot Sal, de beller Yamacraw, an’ dat settle him. Er 
rode up ter mer house, an’ dar wuz dem Yamacraw nig- 
gers wid dey tongues rollin’ out dey mout’s lookin’ at 
me. Denner say, er is sho bleeged to yer, Mister Saint 
Clair, fur dis nice ride, an’ yer kin come ergin some time 
w’en yer feels lak hit.” 

They say the tires on the auto were so cut up by the 
broken bottles that it was necessary to revulcanize them. 


MINERVA’S SISTER IN CHICAGO. 

Minerva’s sister lived in Chicago. Just how Minerva’s 
sister got to Chicago can only be accounted for in the 
fact that her father strayed away from Georgia and found 
a job there in one of the hotels, and when he died Miner- 
va’s sister was so thoroughly Chicagoized that she mar- 
ried and settled down there. 

Therefore Minerva’s sister was as some big oomans 
who sat on a throne. Minerva swelled with pride when 
she spoke to the common herd about her sister in Chi- 
cago. It was something no other woman had to brag on, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


43 


and she took delight in telling her company, when she 
r had any, of the wonderful sister in Chicago. She always 
wanted to visit her sister in Chicago, but she could never 
1 save up enough money, and besides she felt that she, with 
her Georgia ways, would fail to shine in the glorious 
light of the sister in Chicago. 

But Minerva had a daughter, named Mary Ann, whom 
she thought passing fair, and one day the Chicago sister, 
with her lavish wealth, sent enough money to carry 
Mary Ann to the big city for a visit. In consequence 
Mary Ann was provided with all kinds of finery and sent 
on. After a stay of some weeks, Mary Ann returned, 
and of course Mary Ann had to tell everything she saw, 
felt and heard about the sister in Chicago. 

“How bigger house yer auntie lives in, honey ?” 

“Hitter gre’t big house wot ain got no front yod ter 
hit, an’ yer haster climb up stairs tell yer gits ti’ed ter 
git too hit. Er doan lak dem kiner houses/’ 

“Wot kiner furnchur yer auntie got, honey?” 

“Hit fine furncher. She gotter cheer anner ’ion baid- 
stid, anner peanner anner shefiFerneer.” 

“Er wotter? Chuccaneer? Wot dot, chile? It muss 
be sump’n noo dat deys have in Chicoggo. Wot hit look 
lak, honey?” 

“Taint nuffin’ butter high-up bero. Auntie say hitter 
shefferneer, but dat all hit is. Dey jiss call hit dat in 
Chicoggo.” 

“Wot yer auntie gi’ yer ter eat, honey? Specs deys 
feed mouty fine in Chicoggo.” 

“Law, mar, er lakter stov. Alls dey eats up dar is 


44 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


disyer oatmeal an’ some sorter mess wot deys call brek- a 
fus feed. Heap ruvver eats sawduss er fodder. Dinned 
time deys gi’ yer I’sh taters wot yer gotter peel yerse’f. 
Deys cookin’ doan soot me, mar. Er gits so hongry fer 
sump’n t’eat er dunno wotter dooz. Deys dunno nuffin 
’bout biskit. Hit light braid alls de time. Er sho wants 
some er yer biskit.” ( 

“Spec yer auntie er mouty good oomans. Wot chu’ch t 
she tek yer ter, honey?” I 

“Tek me ter no chu’ch tall. Auntie doan go ter 
chu’ch.” 

“Wot! Doan deys have no chu’ches in Chicoggo? 
Fur de Lawd’s sake, wot deys means ber dat?” 

“Dey izzer heaper chu’ches in Chiccoggo, but auntie 
doan bleeve dey is any Gawd.” 

“Hush yer mout’! Ef dat ainter shame, an’ she er 
Collins, bawn in de Babtiss chu’ch ! Mer Lawd have 
mussy ! Ef dat doan beat mer time ! Look hyere, chile, 
doan yer brung back no lies on yer auntie. She mer own 
loving sister, she muvver mer muvver, an’ all us bawned 
in Jones county. An’ her grammer de besses oomans in 
Jones county, an’ she par raise up in de chu’ch. How 
come yer knowd dat yer auntie doan bleeve dey is any 
Gawd?” 

“She tor me her own se’f, she sho did. Er hyeerder 
wid dese two year. She sho did, an yer kin ax her fur 
yerse’f ef yer doan bleeve me.” 

“Fur de lan’ sake ! Wot yer tells her, honey, w’en she 
tol’ yer dat deys ain no Gawd?” 

“Er jiss say, er doan kyeer !” 

Minerva was so horrified at the religious views of her 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


45 


sister in Chicago, and with Mary Ann’s remark, that 
she asked no more questions that day. 


RECONCILIATION. 

J 

The lady who owned the auto of which Percival St. 
Clair is the chauffeur, was out visiting Monday after- 
noon. While she was paying a visit to a friend on the 
hill, the auto was waiting in front of the house with Per- 
cival sitting there under the shadow of the wheel, dressed 
in his linen duster and cap. 

Who should come up with a big box but Emma, the 
dressmaker’s delivery girl, and as she started in the gate 
1 she saw the auto and the chauffeur. It was the first time 
they had seen each other since the night he had gone to 
her house with the auto to take her to ride, and had been 
so badly fooled by Slowfoot Sal, who impersonated 
Emma until far out on the road. Percival couldn’t un- 
derstand why Emma did not come out of of the yard 
instead of Slowfoot Sal, knowing nothing of the decoy 
note that had been written by Sal. On the other hand, 
Emma could not understand why Percival had not called, 
knowing nothing of Sal taking a ride with him. 

“Dat you, Miss Emma? Er lakt ter nevvy knowed 
yer, Tut ben so long sence er seed yer.” 

"How come yer ain ben ter seed me sence dat time 
yer treat me so bad, Mister Sinclair ?” 

"Who treat yer bad? Yer de ones dat ben treatin’ 
peoples bad. Er driv up ter yer house dat night jiss 
lakked sayed er wuz gwineter do, an’ stidder you er com- 


46 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


in’ out an tekkin de ride hit wuz dat lowdown Slowfoot 
Sal, all dress up inner veil, anner thinkin’ hit wuz you 
alls de time.” 

“Yer knowed all de time hit wuzzent me, yer kaint fool 
dis chick’n. Yer knows er gotter better shape dan dat 
ol’ t’ing ” 

‘‘Er nevvy look atter oomans shape, an’ sides dat, how 
yer spec me ter look at yer shape w’en hit night time?” 

“Spec yer feels mouty proud er tekkin Slowfoot Sal 
ter ride in yer orterbeel. She sicher fine lady.” 

“Look hyere, Miss Davis, is yer seed Sal sence dat 
time ?” 

“Naw, wot yer reckin er wants ter seed dat lowdown 
trash fur? Er hoi’s merse’f upper ’bove mixin’ wid dat 
kiner wimmens.” 

“Er sho glad ter hyeer dat,” and Percival was think- 
ing of how Sal swore she was going to tell Emma about 
his hugging her. 

“Er ain gwineter speak ter dat t’ing. But yer ain 
tol’ me how yer fine out taint me yer got in dat orter- 
beel.” 

“Er knowed her talk. We wuz er flyin’ down de Hous- 
ton road an’ she say, stop dat gwine so fass, yer gwine- 
ter spill me out’n dis t’ing ef yer keep up dis lick. Er 
knowed right den dat hit wuzzent you. Er nevvy sayed 
er wud, butter jiss turnt dis waggin right roun’, an’ er 
sho did letter fly ter town. Denner say, Miss Sal, whar 
yer reser-dence? Denner git down dar in de dokkis 
place er seed, anner sayed, ef yer doan git out’n dis orter- 
beel an’ tek yerse’f off er izzer sho gwineter calls de po- 
leeces. Yer jiss oughter seed dat oomans strack er trot 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


47 


fer Yamacraw! Er laugh so er kin hodly run de mer- 
sheen teller fought er how you dis’pinted. Hit wuz all 
dat ooman’s doin’s. Er sho wuz dar ter tek yer out ter 
ride. You’n me sho gotter haves er ride in dis orter- 
beel. ,, 

“Er mouty glad ter hyeer yer talk dat way, Percy, 
kase er sho fought yer wuz mad wid me, but denner 
knowed yer knowed hit wuzzent me. Er didn’t tell ’bout 
de note, didder? Yer know dat night er gits er note, an’ 
hit say come down ter de bue-ry lane kase we is wotched ! 
Hit had yer name sign ter hit. Dat wot med me go way 
down dar ber de bue-ry, an’ dat got me out’n de way so 
dat triflin’ chaingang heffer kin dress up lak me an’ go 
wid yer. Hit look lak dey is sump’n alls de timer git- 
tin’ in our way, doan hit, Percy?” 

“Hit sho do. Spec some er dem niggers lak Sal dun 
cun jure us. But how come hit wuz dat Slowfoot knowed 
dat we wuz gwineter ride?” 

“Yer know dat liT nigger name Foday, dat yer tol’ 
he couldn’t ride dat time down dar ber de branch? He 
de one dat hyeer us, an’ he went right straight ez he 
could run an’ tol’ her all ’bout hit, dat wot he dun.” 

“Deys ain nobody roun’ now, so deys kin hyeer us, is 
dey? Well, yer meet me ber de railroad on Fote street 
ter-night w’en de clock strack niner clock, an’ wese tek 
dat ride dis berry night, kase de w’ite folkses gwine ter 
stay ter home ter-night. We sho haves dat ride spiter 
Sal an’ dem ol’ niggers, we sho will.” 

“Ef de stars shine er sho be dar. Musser war er veil, 
Percy ?” 

“Yer kin brung de veil, but yer ain gotter put hit on 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


teller git er chaince ter seed who yer is fo yer git in dis 
waggin. Yer sho look sweet ter-day, Emma.” 

“Hush yer mout\ somebody gwineter hyeer yer.” 
i “Er tell yer right now er sho gwineter kiss yer ter- 
. night.” 

£ “Ain yer shamer yerse’f, ter talk datter way. Better 
not let dat Slowfoot Sal hyeer yer say dat. Butter gwine- 
ter be dar fur yer.” 

i “Goo bye. Memmer wotter tol’ ’bout dem kisses,” and 
then she went in the house to deliver the box. Percival 
wondered if she knew about his kissing Slowfoot. It 
was the only trace of bitterness in his cup of joy. 


SPIDERS. 

c 

“Mer liT gal reed me in de paper whar er dey izzer 
big spider wot kin eat upper man,” said Bill to the crowd 
of draymen, while they were diving into their dinner 
buckets yesterday. 

“Wotter whole mans?” asked Pete, who was always a 
doubter. 

“Dat wot de paper sayed, an’ dat wot mer liT gal 
reed,” said Bill, and ever since the crowd found out that 
Bill’s little gal was nineteen years old they never doubted 
what she said. 

“Dat spider sho hongry! How big dat spider, Bill?” 
asked Jim. 

“De paper didn’t say, hit jiss sayes hit izzer man- 
eater,” ventured Bill. 

“Dat mekker diffunce. Dat spider mout be bigs diss 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


49 


hoss fur wot yer alls know. Hit mout be bigser lepphunt, 
errer mule, we dunno. Dem papers dunno how big dat 
spider iz, er de sho say so. Cose taint no tinchy-winchy 
spider lak dem we seed roun hyere.” Pete was a little 
careful, as he did not want to reflect on Bill’s gal. 

“Dunno how big de spider, but mer liT gal sayes hit 
swing down fum er lim’ on er mans an’ hit goobye mer 
honey wid dat mans. Er sho glad deys doan haves dem 
kiner spiders in ol’ Georgy,” said Bill. 

“Huh! Er seeder spider one time dat crawl out’n 
er buncher bernanners, an’ hit bigs mer hat, er sho did,” 
said Pete. 

“Come down, Pete ; come down ! Yer knowed yer ain 
seed no spider bigs yer hat. Spec dat wuzzer bugger 
some kine. Dey tells me dat de bugs so big whar ber- 
nanners comes fum dat de lazy niggers down tar teach 
! um ter pull de bunches er bernanners oflf de vine fer 
urn.” 

“Bernanner doan grow on vines, mans ! Wot yer talk- 
in’ ’bout? Deys grow on er low squatty bush, dat wot 
deys tell me.” 

“Mer li’l’ gal reed me sump’n else,” said Bill; “she 
reed me ’bout er li’l’ red spider down hyere in Dooly 
j county dat eat up de cotton.” 

“Fur de lan sake! Eat up de cotton! Ef dat doan 
S beat mer time! Wot deys gwineter do nex time? Fuss 
hit de bowl weasel, den hit de red root, den hit de black 
drout, den hit de green grass, den hit kaint git niggers 
ter pick de cotton, den de russ, den hit too much rain, 
an’ now hit de red spider! Wot gwineter comes uv cot- 
ton ef deys keep on? How big de red spider. Bill?” 


50 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Mer liT gal say hit ’bout bigser pin pi’nt dat wot she 
reed in de paper.” 

“Tank de Lawd dat spider ainter gwineter eat me up i 
Er skeerder dem uvver spiders yer liT gal ben reedin’ 
’bout, dem wot eat upper whole mans fur dinner an’ tek- 
ker baby fur lunch. Ef dem red spiders ain no biggern 
er pin pint dey kin fotch um on.” 

“Look lak ter me dat yer nevvy hyeer tell uv all dese 
spiders, dem kine wot eat upper whole mans, an’ dem 
red spiders dat eat up de cotton, tell probashun comes. 
Hit sho do look lak diss wul all gone crookit sence pro- 
bashun come. Wot yer reckin cornin’ nex ?” 

“Dem big spiders wot eat upper whole mans, whar 
dey comes fum ? Dooly county, too ?” 

“Naw, yer knows deys doan come fum no Dooly 
county! Yer kin ax de mostest fool quesshuns uv any 
mans er evvy did seed.” 

“Yer so smot, whar deys come fum?” 

“Noo Yawk, dat whar deys come fum. Evvyt’ing dat 
big come fum Noo Yawk.” 

“Dese yer hats de wimmens izzer totin’ on dey haids 
muss sho come fum Noo Yawk den.” 

“Dey sho do. Doan kyeer wot Noo Yawk dooz, dese 
peoples down in diss town gwineter dooz. Ef dey sont 
out er hat bigs er postidge stomp, dese wimmens tote hit 
on dey haids. Dese umpire gowns come fum Noo Yawk. 
Dese yer stripit socks an’ dese yaller shoes, dey comes 
fum Noo Yawk.” 

“Reckin dese red spiders wot deys got down hyere in 
Dooly county fuss come fum Noo Yawk !” 

“Naw, dat one ting deys ain got in Noo Yawk. Deys 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


51 


sho ain got no cotton dar. Got evvy t’ing but cotton. An’ 
yer knowed how dat come ?” 

"Tell us, Pete.’ , 

“Ef dem peoples wot live in Noo Yawk wuk one day 
in de cotton fiel’ dar wouldn’t be nuff peoples lef ter hist 
er um-bril ter keep de sun off de lass mans.” 

But a call for a dray broke up the conversation. 


THE MARY JANE GOWN. 

The mother of Emma Davis, the dressmaker’s deliv- 
ery girl, having paid her fine and delivered her from the 
chaingang, where her associates were none the best, 
Emma appeared in church Sunday with the latest freak 
of fashion, the Mary Jane. This Mary Jane is a new 
kind of shaped dress, and is supposed to supplant the 
empires, etc. 

“Woffer dat gal war dot t’ing she got on?” asked Mi- 
nerva of Melinda. 

“Neent ax me. Deys ain no tellin wot de wimmens 
gwineter git up nex. But effer hadder gal an’ she come 
ter de house er de Lawd widder t’ing lak dat on, er sho 
beater mouty nigh ter deff, datter would ! Hitter shame, 
er regler ginnerwine shame, dat gals dese days dress up 
lak deys dooz. Deys doan put on ernuff ter soot me. 
Wot yer reckin gittin de matter wid our gals?” Melinda 
watched Emma as she passed by. 

"Dat all her mar doins. Her mar doan ’low her ter 
mix up wid us common peoples. She say Emma gotter 
go in de bess s’iety. S’iety nuffin ! Er seed de time w’en 


52 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


her mar wuz down on her knees scrubbin de kitchin do 
menyer time. An’ hyere she is tellin dat gal she mussun 
speak ter us common peoples! S’iety, her foot!” 

“Er doan kyeer ef she speak ter me er no, er is sho 
gwineter ax her wot kiner frock dat she got on. Mer 
gal Mary in de baid sick, anner know she gwineter ax 
me ’bout de noo style. Miss Emma ! Oh, Miss Emma !” 

Emma halts and turns around to see who it is calling 
her. There is nothing unkind in the voice, and she smiles 
and approaches Minerva. 

“Miss Emma, datter mouty poorty frock yer is got on 
dis mawnin. Er is stud’n ’bout gittin Mary er noo frock, 
an’ cose hit gotter be de latis style. Wot de namer de 
noo frock?” 

“Deys call dis de Mary Jane. Hit med on de box 
patt’n, an’ yer kin trim hit down ter de knee ef yer lak 
hit datter way. Alls de w’ite wimmenses gwine crazy 
’bout de Mary Jane. De lady wotter wuks fur, she gim- 
me dis frock so de wimmenses kin haves some med lak 
hit.” Emma felt the warm glow that comes from being 
the observed of all observers. 

“How many yodder cloff hit tek ter mekker frock lak 
dis Mary Jane, Miss Emma?” 

“Hit tekker ’bout fo’teen. Yer know de umpire gown 
doan tek but six yods, but diss is fuller in de skut, sides 
hit fuller in de front.” 

Minerva had listened, with others who had gathered 
around, and at first she determined not to have anything 
to say to a girl whose mother had told her not to speak 
to common people, but curiosity got the best of her. So 
she said: 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


53 


“Well er do declar! Is yer mistook’n, Miss Emma, 
’bout dem six yodder cloff ? Er sho would er bet money 
dat dese umpire gown wouldn’t tek but fo yods. Yer 
knows deys mouty skrimpin roun de skut. Look lak ter 
me fo yods er Gawd’s plenty fur dem frocks. Whar yer 
put dem six yods, Miss Emma?” 

“W’y de skut tek upper heaper cloff, an’ den comes de 
waistes an’ de sleeves. Hit tekker heaper cloff fur any 
kiner frock dese days. How yer lak de Mary Jane, 
ladies ?” 

“Hit look mouty well on you, Miss Emma, but hitter 
kiner frock dat ainter gwineter look well on some wim- 
menses. Ef Fatty Fan git in one er dem Mary Janes, 
she mout ez well put on one er dese big kitchin ap’ons 
an’ sticker cracker box unner hit. She sho would looker 
sight. Er slim slenner gal lak mer Mary — she ain much 
mo’n bagger bones, po’ chile — hit jiss soot.” This was 
Minerva’s opinion. 

“Er ain got nuffin ter say ’bout hit, Miss Emma,” said 
Melinda, “er is gittin too ol’ ter mess wid dese noo kiner 
frocks. Dem dat wants um kin gittum. Gimme de ol’ 
time frock wot tekker heaper cloff an retch ter de groun, 
an’ wot yer got plenty room ter sot down in. Er doan 
lak dese kiner frocks dat yer gotter sot down lak yer 
gwineter sot down on er baskit er aigs and yer spec dem 
aigs rot’n. Er seed some gals fred ter sot down in dese 
noo frocks kase dey lookin fur sump’n ter buss loose in 
cumpny. W’enner wants ter sot down er wants ter sot 
down, cep’n de cheer broke. Er izzer ol’ fashin nigger, 
and sho proud uvvit.” 

But the ice had been broken, and both Melinda and 


M 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Minerva went home with a little better opinion of Emma, 
because in spite of her mother, who was stuck up, Emma 
had spoken to them, if they were common people. 


PARTING OF THE WAYS. 

Lige Baskins and his wife, Sue, have gone their sepa- 
rate ways. Nearly four years ago they married. He was 
a cripple, his legs in the shape of a letter S as he walked ; 
she was blind and had to be led along. They were both 
lonesome, and both were growing old. They would be 
a comfort to each other. True he made but little by bot- 
toming chairs and basket making, but what he made was 
enough to live on. She, being blind and fat, cumbered 
the earth. Being blind, she could not stir around and 
keep his house in trim, but she was his helpmeet, his 
companion. 

Yesterday they met at the courthouse. He crawled up 
the steps, using his hands as much as his feet, so badly is 
he crippled, while she was led falteringly up the steps by 
a little girl. They had parted after an outbreak on Sat- 
urday, and unknown to each other they had gone to the 
temple of justice, she to find if she could get a divorce 
from a man so hopelessly crippled, he to see if there was 
not some law to prevent her from leaving him in that 
helplessness. 

So the people who passed in and out of the courthouse 
saw them seated on the witness bench in the hallway. 

“Er sho wouldn’t er come hyere efferder knowed yer 
wuzzer comin ter de big cote. Wot yer doins hyere, no 
how?” said Sue, who had recognized his voice. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


55 


“Dat jiss wotter gwineter ax you,” said Lige; “butter 
doan mine tellin yer wot mek me comes hyere. Er iz 
gwineter ax de jedge ef yer is ’lowed ber law ter leaves 
me. Dat wotter gwineter do. Er gwineter ax him ef 
tainter shame fur yer ter leaves me lak yer did Saddy 
night. Yer ain ben stud’n ’bout diss lakker lawful wife, 
er de mans wot love yeh lak er loves yer. Me er po’ 
cripple mans lakker is.” 

“Yeh er is ben stud’n ’bout hit. Ben stud’n ’bout hit 
heap mo’n you is. Ben stud’n ’bout me bein bline, an’ 
jisser kaser bline an’ kaint see, yer spec me ter wuk lak 
er kin seed. Yer ain ben treaten me right, Lige. Yer 
got ti’ed er me, dat wot yer dun, Lige. How kinner he’p 
bein bline? De Lawd mek me bline. He fix hit so er 
kaint seed, an’ jiss kaser kaint seed ter sew de butt’ns 
on yer britches an’ ter mek yer shut now’n den, an’ cook 
yer vittles, yer gits ti’eder me. Er knows wot yer wants 
good ez you do. Yer wants er oomans dat kin seed.” 

“Ain er ben good ter yer? Ain er beener feedin yer 
all dis time ? Ain er buyed yer clo’es an’ gi’ yer sump’n 
t’eat ? Er sho dooz, an’ now hit go off an’ leave me, an’ 
me er po’ cripple ! Hitter shame, Sue.” 

“Yer gi’ me dis one frock wotter got on. Yer gi’ me 
two pa’r shoes. De feedin ain ben anything ter brag on. 
Still, er doan wants ter say nuffin ergin yer. Hitter heap 
better you go yer way an’ lemme go de way er wants ter 
go. Er got peoples dat’ll tek kyeer me.” 

“But dem peoples ain gwineter tek kyeer yer lakker 
benner doin. Dey is gwineter git ti’ed er yer, an’ den 
whar is yer? Dey is foolin yer. Deys de one dat full 
up yer haid ’bout leavin me. Deys de berry ones. Hit 


56 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


sho izzer shame ter ax yer ter leave me disser way. 
Woon’t yer come back ter de ol’ home, Sue?” 

“Hit dun too late now, Lige. Yer mouter ben stud’n 
’bout diss long timer go. Hit too late now, kaser dun 
mek up mer mine. Tain kase yer ol’, taint kase yer crip- 
ple. Hit kase yer ain benner treatin me right, an’ yer 
knows hit. Er is sho gwineter go wid mer peoples.” 

“Rickerlic dem times wot us used ter haves fo we 
gits marrit,” said Lige. “Rickerlic wot yer sayed ’bout 
being so lonesome, an’ hit look lak de whole wul dun 
turnt ergin yer. Rickerlic wot yer sayed ’bout yer so 
glad dat yer got one somebody dat yer kin always loves. 
Rickerlic all dat! An’ now wot yer doin? Yer is leavin 
me kaser izer po’ ol’ cripple mans, one wot kaint gi’ yer 
no orterbeel ter rid in, kaint gi’ yer er noo frock evvy 
Saddy night, kaint gi’ yer all de nibear yer kin drinkt, 
kaint feed yer on ham’n aigs an sossidge evvy mawnin 
fur brekfus, kaint buyed yer er noo pa’r shoes evvy time 
yer wants um, kaint do fur yer lakker wants ter, an’ jiss 
kase er kaint dooz diss, yer pick up’n leaves me! Dat 
ain doin me right, Sue. Er didn’t t’ink yer’d dooz me 
datter way, Sue. Woon’t yer come back home ?” 

“How come yer didn’t study ’bout me alls diss time ?” 
asked Sue; “yer benner runnin roun hyere atter uvver 
wimmenses an’ fotchin um candy’n groun’peas, an’ yer 
ain nevvy fotch me any. Er izzer po’ bline oomans, but- 
ter shot got feelin, annerainter put up wid dat no mo’. 
Yer goes de way yer gwine, anner goes de way er way er 
izzer gwine. Den day ain no chaince fur me’n you ter 
fuss’n quoil any. Yer sho is talkin mouty nice diss 
mawnin. Dem de fustest kine wuds wot yer spoke dat 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


57 


yer sayed in two year. Yer too late, Lige. Er dun med 
upmer mine, an' mo’n dat, er dun med all mer range- 
ments ter go ter mer peoples whar er is gwineter gitter 
kine wud evvy day an’ Sundy, too.” 

With this, Lige slowly arose from the bench, straight- 
ened out his crooked legs the best he could, and slowly 
made his way down the steps, going down sideways, and 
using his hands on the steps to keep from falling. In 
the meantime Sue was being led to the steps by the little 
girl. She went down slowly, feeling her way with her 
stick. When near the bottom of the steps, he said: 

“Well, ef yer woon’t come back home, hit goobye.” 

Sue’s lips moved, but there was no audible sound. 

“Er sayed goobye,” he repeated. 

“Er dun tol’ yer goobye,” and the tone in which she 
said it convinced Lige that it was all over. 

She was led down the street in the direction of the 
postoffice, while he crossed over by the monument, sham- 
bling along, stopping now and then to look at Sue as she 
felt her way along the street with her stick, “she gwine 
de way she er gwine an’ he er gwine his way,” and 
though they were black, and both simply cumbering the 
earth, he a hopeless cripple and she hopelessly blind, with 
not a dollar on earth, they presented a scene and an inci- 
dent in life that had much of the pathetic in it. 


THE LOITERERS. 

It was the opinion of a great many that the police never 
did a meaner trick than that of hunting up and arresting 


58 


10® STORIES IN BLACK 


a number of well-known characters of Tybee and Yama- 
craw on the scurrilous charge of loitering. The only 
excuse the police had to offer was that they wanted to 
rid the city of every negro who had no visible means 
of support. 

Even the judge was shocked to see many of his old 
time friends before him, and to know that he was there 
to deal out justice. But the law is cold and hard. Here 
is the court scene : 

“Slowfoot Sal, is it possible that you are here before 
me again, after a long absence ?” 

“Yer aint hatin hit no wussun me, jedge ! Er toF dat 
yallerhammer poleeces dat er wuz ft© lawter. Er izzer 
lady, merse’f.” 

“Where are you working now. Sal?” 

“Er izzer heppin mer mar wash’n i’on, dat wotter doin. 
Er draws evvy bit de water mer mar wash wid.” 

“Judge,” said the officer, “there is no well on the lot, 
and she gets the water out of a faucet.” 

“S’poser do? How yer gwineter git de water ef yer 
doan draws hit fummer fosset? Tell me dat.” 

“How much does your mother pay you a week, Sal?” 

“She gimme er livin, dat wot she dooz. Yer doin 
mouty well dese days ef yer kin mekker livin. Er ainter 
gittin no good ok sossidge an hambug steak lakker used 
ter, butter gitter plenty such ’tis.” 

“Isn’t this Whispering Annie?” 

“Yer hittit de fuss time, jedge, diss me.” 

“You have been absent from the city, I believe.” 

“How come yer know dat, jedge? Spec yer read hit in 
de paper. Deys always got sump’n in de paper ’bout me. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


59 


an’ whar er gwine, an’ whar er cum fum. Er ’blong ter 
de swell s’iety, anner lady lak me gotter let de peoples 
knowed whar er ben.” 

“Who are you working for, and what do you do for 
a living?” 

“Who er wukkin fur an wotter do fur er livin?” 

“You heard what I said.” 

“Er is heppin mer mar wash’n i’on, dat wotter dooz, 
an’ all dese poleeces know dat.” 

“Do my eyes deceive me ? Isn’t this Harelip Pete, the 
one Jack Jackson of Jacksonville always alludes to as 
1 Haslit Pete?” 

“Diss me, jedge,” said Pete, with a grin that called for 
hope that he would get off light. 

“What are you doing, Pete? Tell me the truth, I like 
a man who is not afraid to tell the truth.” 

“Er sho gwineter tell yer de trufe, jedge, er is shootin 
craps in Pair-er-dice Alley. Er ainter gwineter tell yer 
no lie lak dese niggers whot say dey heppin dey mar 
wash’n i’on.” 

“You are manipulating the bones in Paradise Alley?” 
j; “Er mekkin er livin, jedge.” 

“If this isn’t Precious Jackson, then I’m mistaken! I 
am surprised to know that you are loitering on the 
streets, Precious. I thought you were going to get mar- 
ried and settle down.” 

“Jedge, hitter shame de way dem poleeces dun me. 
Dooz yer calls walkin on de street gwine ter yer wuk an’ 
bovrin nobody, dooz yer calls dat lawtrin ?” 

“What kind of work were you going to?” 

“Er tote de cl’oes ter de w’ite folkses atter mer mar 


60 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


wash um, anner goes about mer bisniss anner doan stop!] 
ter talk ter nunner dese lowdown niggers, an deys kaint , 
sayes er dooz an tell de trufe.” : 

“What did you say your name was?” 

“Emma Davis.” 

“What sort of work do you do, Emma? Aren’t you a 
dressmaker’s delivery girl ? Aren’t you the one who car- j 
ries these outrageous aggregations of heterogenous con-j 
glomerations, otherwise known as the monstrosities of 
fashion, to the fair devotees of the capricious dame?” 

“Jedge, fo Gawd er didn’t do hit. All er dooz in dis 
wul is ter tote de frocks an’ de hats ter w’ite wimmens 
wot buyed um. Spec yer stud’n ’bout some uvver: 
oomans.” 

“I am going to dismiss this case against Emma. She 
seems to have a job. All the others will serve ninety , 
days on the gang.” 

Then the batch filed out of the court room to await 
transportation to the stockade. Out of the hearing of the 
court were such expressions as “dat man’s sho er dandy,” 
“aint he de limit,” “er sho git sump’n good ter eat fur 
de next free mont’s,” and “er dunno wot mer mar gwine- 
ter do now widout her honeybunch.” 


THE SPOTTER. 

When Bud was a strapping lad, working on the farm 
with his daddy, he knew no more about the doings of a 
city than old Tige, the hound lying in the yard, and which 
slept through life. But one day he left, the old man 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


61 


having an idea that his boy ought to be educated, and he 
came to town in his jeans clothes, rawhide shoes and 
slouch wool hat. That was two years ago, and with the 
exception of an occasional letter to an aunt with whom 
he lived, he never heard from his people. 

Isaac had long wanted to see the boy, but he was too 
poor to come to Macon, and the boy wrote that he was 
always hard up for cash, so all the old folks could do 
was to send up their prayers • after the manner of the 
simple country folk, and hope that the day would come 
when the parents could meet the son. Isaac belonged 
to the good old negro class. The theft of a chicken or 
a hog, didn’t count, and otherwise he was honest, and so 
far as he knew he was law-abiding. He and Nancy de- 
spised wickedness, and although they were negroes they 
had their ideas of right and wrong, and really lived 
lives much cleaner than a lot of white folks you and I 
know. 

At last a letter reached them that Bud was coming 
home. Nothing on earth could have given them more 
happiness in their way. Nancy went at once to cooking, 

■ remembering just what Bud liked to eat, and the old man 
| did the best he could with his rheumatic twinges to have 
i the lot cleaned up to give the boy a rousing welcome and 
! a pleasant stay. Then came Bud. 

They saw Bud as he walked up the road, with a cane 
in one hand and suit case in the other. He was dressed 
in the swellest of clothes, a crushed green hat surmount- 
ing his head. Between the bottoms of his trousers legs 
and the tan shoes was displayed the fancy red socks. 
He was the returned son. The old people looked at him 


62 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


in amazement. Two years had wrought the marvelous S 
change in his appearance. 

There was a big supper that night, and the world < 
looked glorious to the old couple. Bud behaved himself ; 
the best he could, though it was plain that the humble j 
surroundings were distasteful. It was the old home, i 
but it didn’t accord with his city ideas. 

After supper the family gathered around the big 
open fire to talk over the old times, and especially to 
hear Bud tell of the city. It was evident that the old 
man was thinking of how his son could afford such swell 
clothes. It wasn’t in keeping with his ideas. As for 
Nancy, she was overwhelmed with the fine clothing and I 
the general appearance of her boy, and she never gave a 
thought to where or how he got them. 

“Wot sorter wuk yer doin’ in Macon, Bud ? ’Pears ter 
me yer mus’ be er mekkin er sighter money ter w’ar dem 
kiner clo’es.” 

“Er izzer wukkin fur de law now, par,” said Bud 
proudly. 

“Wukkin fur de law ! Wot yer means ber wukkin fur 
de law, Bud?” 

“Er is wot dey calls er spotter.” 

“Spotter! Spotter! Wot de namer de Lawd izzer 
spotter ? Seem lak ter me datter noo kiner wuk.” 

“Er pote de peoples wot sell liquor. Yer see dey doan 
sell no mo’ liquor in Macon now cep’n de bline tiger 
liquor, an’ hitter ’gin de law ter sell dat.” 

“Wot de spotter gotter do wid dat ?” 

“Ef yer seed de way dem j edges sont dem peoples wot 
sell hit ter de gang, yer wouldn’t ax me dat.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


63 


“Tell me how yer wuks, Bud.” 

“Hit disser way. Er santer inner sto’ whar dey sell 
j diss ni-beer, anner tekker glasser ni-beer, anner say, dis 
yer stuff mouty po’n weak lak, aint yer gotter drinker 
good or booze roun’ hyere ? Den de mans say how much- 
| yer wants? Er say, pint. De mans say, yer gotter be 
, mouty keerful wot yer do dese days, but lemme see yer 
dollar. Denner pass de dollar an’ he pass me de pint. 
Denner tell de poleeces an’ den dey brungs de mans ter 
de cote, an’ de jedge he say, who buyed dat pint fum dis 
mans? De poleeces tell de jedge dat dis young mans 
buyed hit. Den de jedge ax me ’bout hit, anner tell de 
trufe, er sho buyed dat liquor fum dat mans. Den de 
jedge sont de mans ter de chaingang, an’ de poleeces dey 
han’ me ten dollars. Dat wot deys gi’ me evvy mans er 
pote datter way.” 

The old man didn’t receive this definition of a spotter 
[ with as much enthusiasm as Bud desired. He thought 
! the old man would be rather proud of his son being so 
| smart. 

\ “An’ dat wot yer call er spotter? Yer goes inner sto’ 
an’ yer mek de mans brek de law, an’ yer sont him up ter 
, de jedge an’ de jedge sont him ter de chaingang, an’ dey 
! pays yer ten dollar. An’ dat wot yer means ber wukkin 
fur de law, an’ dat how yer got all dem fine clo’es, an’ 
dat de way yer mekkin er livin! Yer senner mans ter 
de chaingang fur ten dollar. Lemme tell yer sump’n: 
Dar izzer train gwine ter Macon dat pass de crossin’ 
down yanner ’bout twevver clock. ’Cordin’ ter dat clock 
up dar on de chimley-piece, yer is gotten ’bout fifteen 
minnits ter cotch dat train. Git dat cyarpit sack an’ dat 


04 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


walkin’ stick, an’ yer tek dem foots in yer han’ an’ yer 
gits. ’Longs yer lives doan yer come hyeer ter dis house. 
De mans wot sont ernuvver mans ter de chaingang jiss 
ter git ten dollar, kaint sleep unner dis roof. Yer ol’ par 
mouter tucker chick’n in he time, but he aint nevvy sen- 
ner mans ter de chaingang fur no ten dollar, doan keer 
ef he mer son two time. Tek dat cyarpit sack an’ git, 
an’ doan yer gimme no back-talk neever. Hit ’bout much- 
ser kin do now ter keep fum blowin’ yer brains out, yer 
triflin’, no ’count, scoun’le, yer. Heap ruvver yer come 
back hyere inner box. Spotter ! Wukkin fur de law ! 
Senner mans ter de chaingang wot yer coax ter brek de 
law ! Er is so glad ol’ Marse John dun daid. Me’n yer 
po’ ol’ muvver doan wants Marse John ter know dat you 
de kiner chilluns ol’ Isaac and Nancy brung up. Needn’t 
bovver ’bout sayin’ goodbye — hit sho goodbye w’en yer 
tell me wot sorter wuk yer doin’. Go, er tell yer, an’ dat 
de lasser you wid me!” 

Bud wanted to explain, but when he saw the old man 
take down a long-barreled gun from behind the door, 
he knew that he was done for. After Bud had gone, and 
Isaac and Nancy were in bed trying to woo the sleep 
that would never come, for they had experienced the dis- 
appointment of their lives, Nancy, who had remained 
quiet all during the talk, said: 

“Wunner ef dat train dun gone.” 

At this moment they heard the whistle at the crossing. 

‘•Mer po’ boy,” said Nancy. 

“Better say yer doggone scoun’le, ” said Isaac. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


65 


CUPID ON MATRIMONY. 

“Go ’long, boss, wot yer ax me dat fur? Yer knows 
er ainter gwineter git marrit ter no nigger ! Er is sho 
buv marryin dese time niggers wot wans dey wifes ter t 
: spote um. Sides dat, wotter want ter git marrit fur, no 
how? Er git me sump’n t’eat anner gotter place ter 
| sleep, anner ain got nobody ter worry me. Go ’long, 
boss! Effer turnt fool’n marry, er git yer ter put hit 
in de paper dat ol’ Cupid sho turnt fool.” 

This was Cupid when asked yesterday if it was true 
she had gotten married. You don’t know Cupid ! Go 
down to the union depot on Tuesdays and see her on her 
knees scrubbing the floor. She is the champion scrubber, 
and when she gets through with that floor it is as clean 
as can be cleaned. 

“Dunno wot meks peoples git marrit fur, no how. 
Some er dese gals look lak dey jiss go plum crazy ef 
deys doan git marrit. Time deys git ter wairin 
long frocks they study ’bout some mans ter come 
I long and marry um. Look lak deys is skyeerd dey 
i ainter gwineter git marrit, an’ deys tek de fuss mans dat 
‘come long. Deys ain lookin at de kiner mans, jiss so he 
er mans. Er hyeer some uvvum say dey kin tekker mans 
wot drink licker an’ mek him quit dat. Deys say dey 
kin fawm him, mekker good mans out’n him. Yer doan 
cotch Cupid fawming no mans. Effffer mans so bad dat 
yer haster marry him ter fawm him, den he ain wuff 
fawmin. Er dun seed too much er dis hyere tekkin a 
mans dat drinks an’ play craps an’ cut up all sorter way, 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


an’ fawmin him an’ he got right back ter whar he stot 
fum. Yer doan cotch Cupid doin dat. Naw sur!” 

“But the Bible favors marrying, Cupid.” 

“De Bible say yer gotter be good, too ! Hit say ‘bey 
mer ’man’ments ! Hit say de debbul git yer ef yer doan 
mine out, but wot good all dat do? Hit doan say yer 
haster git marrit ter er lowdown triflin nigger dat drink ; 
dis bline tiger licker! Hit mean dat yer muss marry er 
good mans, dat wot hit means, but tell me whar yer 
gwineter fine de good mans ? Whar he ? Whar de good 
mans? Er ain nevvy seed him.” 

“There may not be one in Tybee, but how about those 
fellows in Yamacraw?” 

“Yamacraw ! Mer goodniss, boss, wot yer talkin ’bout ? 
Dem Tybee niggers is anjils ’longsider dem Yamacraw 
niggers; sides dat, dems ain niggers in Yamacraw, deys ; 
monkeys an’ debbuls, dat wot dey is. Cose dey is some 
niggers in Yamacraw, but dey ain no nigger dar dat dis 
chile git marrit ter.” 

“But you must have had sweethearts when you were 
younger, the same as other girls ?” 

“Who ? Me ? Wotter wants widder sweetheart ? 
Wotter wants widder sweetheart runnin after me fur? 
Er tek upper stick anner knock um in de haid ef dey 
come runnin atter me ! Er sho will ! Evvy day dese 
manses git wusser an’ wusser. Doan er seed um ? Doan 
er seed um we’en de poleeces tek um up in de mizry wag- 
gin wot deys call hit, an’ fotch um up yanner ter dat 
Judge Ekkerhot’s cote, whar he sont um ter de gang, 
right whar deys ought ter be? Cose er dooz! Talk er- 
bout er good mans ! Er hyeer some er dese nigger wim- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


67 


mens saves dey gotter good husbun, an’ dat he ’vide um 
wid fine frocks an’ sich, but dat alls dey dooz if dey dooz 
dat. Dem wimmens dunno wot dem good husbuns dooz 
w’en dey outer dey sight, dat deys doan !” 

“Then you do not believe in marriage, and you think it 
a failure?” 

“Er aint got nuffin ter do wid wot uvver wimmens 
dooz. Dey kin git marrit alls dey wants, but longs er 
kin mek braid’n meat anner watermilyun now’n den, er 
sho ain stud’n ’bout no mans. Er ain nevvy seed nuffin 
but trouble wid dem folkses wot git married yit. Some 
uvvum mek out deys so happy, but hit w’en dey in cump- 
ny. Yer git er marrit oomans off ber herse’f an’ look 
thoo her dress, an’ her heart all black whar hit ben bung 
up wid de doins er dat husbun she got, but she ainter 
gwineter let folks knowed hit.” 

“Why?” 

“Kase she knowed she mek de baid an’ she gotter lay 
on hit. She rund atter dat mans wot buss her heart dat 
way, an’ she shame ter let people knowed hit. Dat de 
oomans in her. Er mans ain built datter way. Jiss 
timer oomans toch er mans heart sorter rough lak, he 
pick up he trunk an’ gone. Er oomans know she gotter 
stay right dar an’ stan hit. Naw surree, dis chile aint 
nevvy gwineter git marrit, naw sur!” 


THE FIGHT. 

Party of boys in Jaybird Alley, some shooting craps, 
some looking on wishing for a nickel that they might 


68 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


enter the game, while one is watching out for a police- 
man. 

Central figures are Skinny and Huckleberry, boys in 
size, men in knowledge of the under world. 

“Gimme er siggeret, Huck,” says Skinny, without look- 
ing at Huckleberry. 

“Dun gi’ yer one anner ainter gwineter gi’ yer nuvver,” 
says Huck, as he rolls the dice. 

“Nawyer aint neever. Gimme one quick.’’ 

“Mer goodniss, mans, how come yer doan buyed yer 
some siggerets, stidder beg’n me fur um alls de time.” 

“Ain beg’n yer all de time. Ef yer doan gimme one 
er gwineter tell on yer.” 

“Go on an tell hit, tell wot yer please, dat wotyer dooz. 
Er reckin er know sump’n on you dat’ll sont yer ter de 
gang wid me. Jiss go on an’ tell hit. Er tell whar ye git 
dat razzer wot yer sell Hinky Boy.” 

“Yer tell dat anner buss yer wide op’n widder brick,” 
and Skinny stopped the crap game. He was getting mad. 

“Nawyer aint gwineter buss mer face op’n neever. 
Better lemme ’lone, er tell yer,” and Huck began to look 
around for a brick. 

“Yer needn’t be lookin’ roun fur nuffin, yer doggone 
ol’ chaingang waterboy, yer.” Skinny had arisen now. 

“Er gwineter hit yer fur dat effer lives, yer ol’ coker- 
nut haid ij jit,” and Huck hunted everywhere for a brick, 
while the other boys hoped they would tie up. 

“Go git yer er brick. Er aint skyeerder yer. Er kin 
w’ipper cowpen fuller yer, anner gwineter sont yer ter 
de chaingang so yer kin tote some mo’ water ter de 
mens. Er doan need no brick ter beat yer face wid.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


69 


Huck saw that it was a fight now, or the other boys 
would never let him hear the last of it. He makes a 
rush for Skinny, who braces himself for the onslaught. 
They clinch. The other boys take furtive glances up and 
down the alley. For about a minute Huck and Skinny 
grit their teeth and try to tear each other to pieces, and 
then simultaneously get loose and each dart about like 
chickens with their heads just wrung off, looking for 
bricks or rocks or sticks. Skinny finds half a rock almost 
as big as his head. They move slowly, cautiously toward 
1 each other with set faces and eyes straight ahead. From 
i across lots there comes a female voice, saying: 

“Huckleberry Massengale ! Huckleberry ! Oh, Huckle- 
berry !” 

“Yer mar callin yer, Huck,” said one of the boys. 

From across lots in another direction came in a female 
voice : 

“Skinny! Oh, Skinny! S-k-i-n-n-y !” 

' “Skinny, yer mar want yer,” said another boy. 

“Yer wait hyere teller go see wot mer mar want anner 
come back an’ fix yer, yer oF skinny laig houn’ yer,” said 
Huck, as he backed away, with his rock in hand, as if 
fearing he might be struck in the back. 

“Er meet yer down dar at de branch atter supper anner 
fix yer, yer oF chaingang waterboy,” said Skinny, as he 
backed away with his brick to see what his mar wanted. 

Then an officer sauntered along through the alley and 
j asked the boys what they were doing, and who it was 
( having a fight down there. 

“Er ain seed nobody foutin roun hyere, izyer boys?” 
said one. 


70 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Naw, dey ain ben nobody foutin roun here. Who 
wuzzit, mister?” And a more innocent looking lot of 
boys never was seen. 


A CHEWING GUM EPISODE. 

A certain charming lady, living on the hill portion of 
the city, has one fault, that of chewing gum, if chewing 
gum is a fault, and she has, or rather it is now best to 
say had, a habit of laying her wad of gum around about 
the house in places. 

She was lolling about in the sitting room the other day, 
rechewing the gum that she had placed the day before 
on the mantel. In the room with her, engaged in dusting 
off the furniture and getting things to rights, was Mandy, 
the maid of all work. 

The lady noticed that Mandy went to the mantel sev- 
eral times, and came away wearing a worried look. This 
occurred so often that the lady finally asked what she 
was looking for. 

“Er wuz lookin fer er piece er gum datter tol’ dat 
nigger Jim ter lay up hyere on de mantelpiece, but dat 
nigger nevvy dun hit.” 

The lady felt the crimson glow in her face. Right then 
she was chewing Mandy’s gum, but it would never do to 
let Mandy know it, and she watched her chance to slip 
it out of her mouth. In the meantime Mandy was get- 
ting madder and madder with Jim. You could tell that 
by the vigorous manner in which she was striking the 
furniture with the duster. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


71 


“Er ack de fool w’enner let dat nigger Jim chaw dat 
gum, but he jiss vowed he gwineter put hit right dar on 
dis mantel, w’en he git thoo wid hit. Hit wuz gittin 
sorter crumly w’enner lowed him ter chaw hit, anner 
speck he dun chawed hit ter pieces. Er nachly spise er 
low down nigger no how.” 

The lady took advantage of Mandy’s back as she 
wheeled on a piece of furniture, to slip the wad out of 
her mouth. Once in her hand she could keep it hidden 
until she could get out of the room, but she was awfully 
uncomfortable, knowing that she had been chewing the 
wad on which both Mandy and Jim had been gnashing 
their teeth. 

“Yer kaint truss some er dese niggers, Miss Mary. 
Dey go back on yer evvy chaince deys git. An’ den deys 
ain one uvvum dat doan drinkt dis bline tiger licker an 
chaw de meanis kiner ’backer. Hitter shame how filfy 
some er dese niggers is. An de ijee er he chompin he ol’ 
snags on mer chawin gum an’ tellin me dat he gwineter 
lay hit right up hyere on dis mantel so er kin git hit 
soon dis mawnin, an den he go off an nevvy dun hit! 
Er wisher had mer claws on him. Er sho dooz.” 

The lady felt herself getting sick. The wad in her 
hand seemed to grow in size and get stickier and stick- 
ier by the grip with which she held it. She felt so bad 
she didn’t have energy enough to get out of her chair, 
nor mind enough to send Mandy from the room, so she 
could get rid of her burden. All she could do was to sit 
there and listen to Mandy. 

“Dese yer menses ain lak de menses in mer time. Alls 
dese niggers dooz dese days is ter run dese kairsene ile 


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buggies er runner pressin club, er sump’n lak dat. Deys 
runs erbout so much er dunno w’y deys doan cotch de 
small pox, anner toF Jim ef he doan mine out he gwine- 
ter cotch hit kase er seeder pumple on he face yistiddy. 
Spec hitter good t’ing he didn’t fotch dat gum back, kase 
ef he cotch de small pox he kin haves de oF gum.” 

The lady was now on the verge of fainting. She 
gasped. 

“Lawsy mussy, Miss Mary, wot ail yer? Lemme git 
yer some water,” and out of the room M’andy hurried. 

The lady took advantage of the absence and into the 
fireplace went the gum. But she astonished Mandy all 
the more when she gulped the water and exclaimed, 
“Thank Heaven!” 


THE LINEN SHOWER. 

Emma, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, announced her 
engagement to Percival St. Clair, the chauffeur, and gave 
it out that there would be a linen shower at the home of 
her mother in Gourdvine Alley, in Tybee, Tuesday night. 
It was well norated around Tybee, and it came to the 
ears of Slowfoot Sal and the other girls to whom Emma 
did not speak, for the reason that she thought herself 
above people who had served one or more terms on the 
chaingang. Consequently they formed a conspiracy to 
attend the shower, even though uninvited, and have some 
fun. They communicated their plans to Jack Jackson of 
Jacksonville, Harelip Pete — Jack was always calling him 
Haslit Pete — Singing Sam, and others, and they were 
ripe. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


73 


The shower party was in full blast by ten o’clock, and 
every visitor had carried some article made of linen, 
when there were sounds of music in the yard. The hum 
of conversation was stopped, and to the accompaniment 
of a guitar there came this song: 

“Some folks lak de bright yaller gal, 

She de ones dat gotter figger, 

But de gal wot soots me bess uv all, 

Izzer low down common nigger, 

Er knows er gal anner name is Em, 

Anner young mans gone an lef’ her. 

An de onlies’ song dat we kin sing, 

Is Em’s er chaingang heffer.” 

The deadliest insult that can be offered by one woman 
to another is to apply the term of chaingang heifer. Con- 
sequently every woman in the house was wrought up to 
the highest pitch. No sooner did Singing Sam conclude 
the song than in rushed the crowd. It was Sal who 
got in first. 

“Er brung yer some linen, Miss Davis, an hitter shut 
fur Mister Saint Clair,” and Sal unrolled a dirty ragged 
shirt. 

“Me, too, Pete, er brung Mister Saint Clair dis nose- 
rag,” and Whispering Annie untied a knot in about the 
dirtiest rag she could find. 

“Er nevvy furgits yer, anner brung yer dis table cloff 
fur you’n Mister Saint Clair,” and Precious Jackson dis- 
played a section of an old sheet that had been split into 
ribbons. 

“You kaint looz me,” said Harelip Pete, as he unrolled 


74 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

a towel that looked as though it had been unwashed for 
years. 

“Er izzer liT late, but er is sho hyere, ,, said Jack Jack- 
son of Jacksonville, as he smoothed the wrinkles out of 
a pillow case that had been used to wipe off a locomo- 
tive. 

The crowd looked on in disgust. Emma was about to 
faint, and her mother, who knew the gang, dared not 
open her mouth. 

“Look lak yer alls is mouty onsociabul ter-night,” said 
Sal, who was itching for a row, “whar de linen dese guys 
brung yer?” 

“Wese got ter seed wot deys brung, kase wese dun 
showed you-alls wot we brung yer,” said Jack Jackson 
of Jacksonville. 

“Hitter shame datter passel er low down niggers comes 
in ter er lady’s house an cut up disser way,” said Per- 
cival in fine scorn. 

“Is you de mans wot scoot de kairsene ile waggin roun 
dis town?” asked Harelip Pete, feeling for his razor. 

“Er izzer shofer fur er otermobul, anner ainter skyeer- 
der yer neever. Doan yer drawed no razzer on me, yer 
black acer spades,” said Percival. 

“Oh, Mister Pete, ef yer got no spec fur mer fucher 
husbun, er ax yer ter haves some fur er lady,” said 
Emma, as sweetly as the circumstances would warrant. 

“Show de lady! Wot yer all doin widder lady in de 
house an yer ain fotcher out sose we kin spec her ? Fotch 
out de lady,” and Jackson was aggravating. 

“Er is de lady, jiss look at me good,” said Sal, as she 
courtesyed low. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


75 


“Hit sho scan’lous ter comes ter er lady’s house an 
ack lak yer alls izzer ackin. Ef yer alls doan git out’n 
hyere er is she gwineter calls de poleeces,” and Percival 
made a movement as if to get to the door. 

But that was good enough excuse for Pete to carry out 
the program that had been arranged. He made a break 
for Percival, Slowfoot Sal went around the room kicking 
the shins of all those who couldn’t get up from their 
chairs quick enough, while Jackson flourished a razor. 
Emma crawled under the bed, and her mother shut her- 
self up in the kitchen, and the guests crowded out of the 
room. Then Sal and Annie gathered up all the linen 
i presents and left, with Percival undergoing agony with 
Harelip Pete. Percival had been knocked down with a 
stick of wood, and Pete had straddled him, grabbing up 
handfuls of sand and dirt and rubbing it over his white 
shirt front and into his mouth and eyes. 

In five minutes there was nobody present but Percival, 
: Emma and her mother. They took an inventory and 
found that all the linen presents were gone except those 
brought by Sal and her party. Percival looked at his 
I shirt front and broke off the engagement. Then Emma 
swore she would never love again, or would she ever 
give another party as long as they lived in Tybee. 


ALLEY TALK. 

Maria had cooked the breakfast, and was leaning out 
of the kitchen window resting, and incidentally gathering 


76 


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the news from the passersby. Martha, another cook, but 
for a family of earlier risers, came along. 

“Dat you, Sister Marfy? Howyer do dis mawnin?” 

“Sorter po’ly, t’anlc Gawd, somehow er uvver er 
couldn’t git mer ress lass night. How you do?” 

“Jiss middlin’, Sister Marfy. Seem lak ter me er 
kaint git ridder dis col’. How de chillun?” 

“Hush, doan say nuffin ’bout dem chillun. Dunno how 
er gwineter git grub enough to fill up dem chillun. Look 
lak dey jiss eat’n eat till dey bustes. Hyeer ’bout Sukey 
Johnson ?” 

“Wot Sukey Johnson? Dat de one dat live in Harris 
alley? De one datter ol’ mans go off’n leffer?” 

“She de one. Daid.” 

“Daid! Sukey Johnson daid? Hush, yer doan tell 
me. She b’long ter our s’iety, doan she ? Ef dese niggers 
keep onner goin’ daid hit’ll take all de money out’n de 
treasure. W’en day gwineter bury ’er ?” 

“Ef de wevver keep on col’ lak hit am dey izzer gwine- 
ter keep ’er tell Sunday atter dinner, so de s’iety kin tu’n 
out, but hit look ter me lak hit tu’nin off wawmer.” 

“Sister Marfy, did yer hyeer ’bout Calline Vinson?” 

“Yer doan tell me dat Calline Vinson daid?” 

“De poleeces got her.” 

“Wot she benner doin’ ? Er t’inker heaper Calline, she 
mer cousin.” 

“Poleeces tucker up fur vacancy, dat wot dey tell me, 
anner knows merse’f dat she wulcs fur ’er livin’.” 

“Ain’t no tellin’ wot dese yer poleeces do. Seem lak 
ter me dey jiss sotter roun’ an’ study up wot dey kin 
tek up de po’ nigger fur. Ef ’tain’t vacancy, hit fightin’, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


77 


an ef ’tain’t dat, hit stealing an’ ef ’tain’t dat, hit dis- 
sawdly. Dem poleeces sho got hit in fur us po’ niggers. 
Hyere kim one uvvum now — wunner wot he smellin’.” 

The officer came up. 

“Either one of you women know Caroline Vinson ?” 

“Ain’t no oomans her dat name roun’ hyere,” Said 
Maria. 

“Is she black ’er yaller?” asked Martha. 

“Well, she is sorter gingercake color, and she has a 
gold tooth,” said the officer. 

“Dar wuzzer Calline Vinson wot kim hyere fum Fort 
Valley, ’bout mer color, an’ I is wot yer call yaller. Wot 
de matter widder, mister?” 

“She’s charged with vagrancy, and we want to find 
somebody who knows she has been at work.” 

“Er knows dat ooman; she de one dat gotter shawt 
laig — don’t she limper liT, mister?” said Martha. 

“Believe she does. Do you know whether she ever 
i works any?” 

“Dat de hoddis wukk’n oomans in Dog Alley. She 
cook fur Mister Brown, an’ w’en she go home after 
supper she tek in washin’. Coser know Calline Vinson. 
Er stud’n ’bout ernuvver oomans. Er seed Calline yis- 
tiddy anner say ter merse’f, how de namer Gawd kin dat 
ooman wuk lak she do an’ doan git down wid de rooma- 
tiz? Dat ooman sho wuks.” 

Both women were served with subpoenas to appear as 
witnesses yesterday morning, and they testified accord- 
ing to their convictions and Caroline was discharged. 
Out on the sidewalk after court, Maria said to Martha : 

“Er nevvy seed dat Calline Vinson in mer life to dis 


78 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

mawnin. She ain’t de Calline Vinson dat I knowed. She 
yer cousin?” 

“Cousin nuffin. Dat oomans in dar she musser took 
mer cousin’s name, er she some uvver Calline Vinson. 
She er noo un on me. Never seed dat ooman fo dis. 
Er jiss know dat de good Lawd gwineter pass over dat 
lie er tol’ ter git dot oomans out’n trouble.” 

“He sho will, Iser gwineter ax Him ter lemme off too, 
w’enner go ter baid ter-night, effer doan furgits hit. So 
long, Sister Marfy.” 

“So long, Sister Maria. Come and see me w’en yer 
kin.” 


WHY THE BOARD WAS RAISED. 

Old Millie keeps a boarding house. Formerly she had 
a restaurant, but so many of her customers began the 
weekly payment plan, and at the end of the week left 
her to eat elsewhere, that she decided to give it up and 
keep a few boarders, requiring payment in advance. But 
she was a good-natured old soul, and the brickyard hands 
as well as those who worked at the crate factory and the 
phosphate works often imposed on her. 

Recently she had more complaint to make. The price 
of foodstuffs went up, and she found that when she fig- 
ured out what she was doing she was losing on her board- 
ers. The only way she could do was to raise the price 
of board, and this is what followed that decision: 

“Er is bleege ter tells yer all dat atter Saddy night er 
sho gotter raise yer bode. Flour dun riz, meat dun riz, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 79 

meal dun riz, an’ evvything dun riz, anner mekkin nuffin 
keepin boders. Dat de trufe ef evvy er tol’ hit.” 

“How much yer gwineter go up on de pricer bode, Miz 
Passmo’?” asked Sim Jackson. 

“Dat wotter benner stud’n ’bout. Er hates ter ax yer 
mo’n de two dollars wot yer benner payin’, butter clar ter 
goodniss hit onpossible ter bode yer fur dat money. Er 
spec yer haster pays me er he’f dollar mo’, er sho do.” 

“Is yer got de gall ter ax two dollars anner ha’f fur 
de bode yer gi’ us, Miz Passmo?” said Mitchell Jones, 
who worked in a brickyard. 

“Wot yer mean ber dat, Mister Jones? Ain de bode 
er benner gi’n yer wufT dat two dollars wot yer benner 
payin' ?” 

“Hit de slackist bode datter evvy git afo, doan kyeer 
whar hit is. Down yanner on Fote street er kin git bode 
at Miz Breedlove’s fur er dollar’n ha’ffer week, dat wot 
dey say, an’ dey tell me dat yer gits ice cream on er Sun- 
day. Effer wuzter seed ice cream in dis house on er 
Sunday er sho would falls daid.” 

“Datter pime blank lie, Mister Jones. Er knows Miz 
Breedlove, anner knows dat she doan gi’ no ice cream 
on er Sunday er any uvver time, an’ yer dunno wot yer 
talkin ’bout.” 

“An’ dey say she give woffles fur brekfus, wid syrup.” 

“Datter nuvver lie. Wot else she do?” 

“Dey tells me dat she gi’ her boders ham’n aigs fo’ 
tinier week, anner botler ni-bear evvy day fur dinner 
cep’n Sunday, w’en she gi’ um two botler bears, sides de 
ice cream.” 

“Mister Jones, er loves er liar but yer gwine too fur. 


80 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Yer kin pack yer rags an’ git out’n dis house jisses quicks 
yer kin. Er ainter gwineter ’low no sich er mans ter eat 
mer grub, yer hyeers dat.” 

“Er wuz jisser crackin’ er joke wid yer, Miz Passmo’, 
kaint yer tekker li’l’ joke lak dat? Dar ain nobody kin 
feed er boder lak yer feeds urn.” 

“Fum dis time on yer pays me fo’ dollars er week, er 
yer kaint stay unner mer roof. Hyere er izzer doin de 
besser kin fur de two dollars er week, an’ now yer come 
tellin me wot dem boders at Miz Breedlove’s git. Ham’n 
aigs fo’ timer week, botler bear evvy day fur dinner !” 

“Mek him tell yer wot sorter baids dey has down ter 
Miz Breedlove’s,” said Tom Brown, the star boarder, in 
love with Millie’s daughter. 

“Ne’er mine ’bout de baids,” said Millie, “er doan 
wants ter hyeer no mo’ fum Mister Jones. Er knows 
wot kiner baids dat Breedlove oomans gi’ her boders ter 
sleep on. Dey tells me dat dey hod lak de flo’ an dey 
doan mekkum up mo’n two timer week, an one sheet alls 
dey got on um, an dat haster do um er mont’. Dat wot 
dey tells me. De house fuller flies an fleas an skeeters. 
She nevvy bu’nner rag ter keep de sketters out lak wese 
do at dis house. But dat ain got nuffln ter do wid wotter 
tol’ yer ’bout de riz in de bode. Evvyt’ing riz so in de 
price dat hit sho look lak de po’ peoples gwineter pairsh 
ter deff. Fo’ pouner meat fur er dollar, an w’en one er 
yer brickyod hans sot down ter supper yer kin eat two 
poun fo yer kin batter eye. Er wukkin mans sho gotter 
haves meat. Mullet good nuff fer oomans, an hit do 
now’n den fur er mans, but er mans gotter haves meat. 
Er oomans kin mek out wid er messer greens anner bowl 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


81 


er pot licker wid co’n braid all crummle up in hit, butter 
mans jis gotter haves meat. Hit meat alls de time. Dun- 
no wot dis wul comin ter no how. Look lak de po’ peo- 
ples git po’ an po’er alls de time, an de rich get richer. 
Look at de orterbeels dey is drivin on de streets. Look 
at de fine houses dey izzer puttin up. Look at de noo 
frocks de wimmens izzer puttin on, an Mary wuz readin 
in de paper tuvver night whar some rich oomans nevvy 
wair er dress but one time. Evvy time she tek off dress 
dar er noo one ter put on. Ain datter shame ! Er dun 
tol’ yer alls er iz gwineter go upper ha’f dollar on de 
bode. Er sho is ti’ed er bein po\” 

And the price of board went up to two dollars and 
a half per week. 


OLD MISS AND AUNT LOU. 

It was in the way-back yonder times, and Aunt Lou 
was of the times. She had grown up with the children, 
and as they passed one by one from her arms and care, 
the stronger the ties that bound the Old Miss and the 
slave. 

Aunt Lou had the run of the house, and there was 
no one, not even Old Miss herself, who dared dispute 
her right to any part of the house, or to boss the younger 
servants. With these she was absolute. They were as 
afraid of her as death, not only because her rebukes were 
sharp, but because she had the confidence of the lady of 
the house, and was such a privileged character. 

Miss Liza knew as well as she knew she was living 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


that Aunt Lou took her keys from the hiding places and 
helped herself to what she wanted, whether from the 
stock of wines in the cellar, or of good things in the 
pantry. But knowing this, even though she was the mis- 
tress of the house, she dared not openly accuse Aunt 
Lou. She might hint, and she might find a new place 
to hide the pantry keys, but she would as soon think 
of flying as to accuse Aunt Lou of taking things. 

In those days the mistress of the house carried the 
keys to the pantry. Her social duties were never too 
exacting to prevent her from giving out what was wanted 
for the meals. This was the custom, and the custom was 
law. And the keys in those days were big fellows. The 
Yale lock, with its small, flat key, was unknown, and the 
keys were large. A bunch of them made up too much of 
a bundle to be carried around in an apron pocket, and 
therefore, they were kept in certain places about the 
house. Of course it was known to Old Miss that Aunt 
Lou would find the keys, and use them to her advantage, 
but Old Miss said nothing. She found another place to 
hide them, and that was all there was to it. 

One day the keys were missing. Old Miss had prob- 
ably forgotten where she had laid them, so she called the 
old servant. 

“Aunt Lou, I have lost the keys, and I wish you would 
find them for me,” said Old Miss. 

Half an hour later Aunt Lou tells of the result of her 
search. 

“Whar ter goodniss, Miss Liza, yer put dem keys? 
Er is looked unner de mat’ress, looked unner de pillow, 
looked unner de rug, anner is looked unner the clock,, 




100 STORIES IN BLACK 


83 


anner is looked in de bero draw, anner is looked fuss 
one place an’ den ernuver, anner aint fine dem keys. Yer 
sho got ernuvver place ter put dem keys whar er kaint 
fine um.” • 

Of course Old Miss was silent. To have admitted that 
she had been hiding the bunch of keys from Aunt Lou 
would have hurt the old creature’s feelings, and that she 
wouldn’t have done for all the world. And yet Aunt Lou 
knew Old Miss was hiding them all the while, and Old 
Miss knew Aunt Lou was helping herself to the good 
things of the wine cellar and the pantry all the while. 

But for one or the other to have made the open accusa- 
tion would have been like throwing a pebble in a smooth 
still pond of water. There would have been a sudden 
splash, and the ripples would have widened their circles 
for a long time. 

Such was the relationship between mistress and old 
servant in the old days, “fo’ de war.” 


THE LITTLE BOY. 


The old grass cutter had worked all the morning in his 
slow way, tugging at- the grass in the front yard, and 
! now that the folks in the house had eaten dinner, a heap- 
ing plate was sent out to him. He laid aside his dull 
l reap hook and sat down on the steps of the kitchen in the 
; backyard to eat. The little boy of the house, unused to 
old negroes, but not in the least afraid of them, sat down 
near him and watched every movement. The dinner 
pleased the old man, and in this happy frame of mind he 
began a conversation. 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Wot mout be yer name, mer HT mans?” 

“John Charles Morris.” 

“You muss be six years ol’ er spec.” 

“Oh, I’ve been six years old a long time. I’m going 
on ten.” 

“Yer is? Er mouter knowed dat. Er wuzzent lookin i 
at yer good. Wot yer par name?” 

The little boy told him. 

“Er used ter knowed er liT boy name John. He er 
heap littler boy ez you fur he age. But datter mouty long 
timer go.” 

“Tell me something about that little boy, please.” 

“Hit wuz way back yanner, spec hit fo yer par ben i 
bawnded. We niggers live on de plantation den, an’ we j 
wuzzent free lak we is now. Mer ol’ marster hadder ' 
gre’t big o Y plantation anner whole lotter us niggers, | 
an o Y marster sho did love he niggers. Longs we on dat 
plantation us niggers nevvy bovver ’bout whar sump’n : 
Beat come fum. Time de dinner hawn soun us jiss ' 
knowed dar wuz plenty dar fur us, an’ some ter spar.” 

“But what about the little boy ?” H i 

“Dat so, er plum furgit ’bout dat li’1’ boy. Dunno wot s 
mek me furgit bout dat boy. Dunno wot mek me < 
furgit bout dat boy. Well, de liT boy he name John, 1 
jiss lak you is. He de ol’ marster’s gran‘chile, an’ he t 
corned ter de plantation to see he gran’par. He didn’t ' 
know nuffin ’bout de country, kase he raise up in de town, t 
One day ol’ marster he come ter de lot whar er wuzzer ( 
curryin de hoss, an he say, Jake! Er say, yassur. He 
say, put de saddle on de pony an’ den git on de roan mar c 
an’ tek de boy down ter de fiel’ whar dey pickin cotton t 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


85 


so he kin seed um! Wid dat er put de saddle on de 
pony anner git on de mar’ anner lope ter de fieF an’ de 
liT boy jisso happy he holler. De pony ain used ter 
dat kiner hollerin, an’ re rar up on he hine laigs. Er 
call out to de liT boy anner say stop dat, honey, dat pony 
doan lak dat way er doin yer doin! De liT boy he so 
happy he laugh an’ holler ergin. Up riz de pony lak 
he so mad, and de liT boy fall ter de groun an’ dat pony 
got de debbul in him an’ stomp dat liT boy in de face 
fo er could jump off de mar’ ! Er haves ter shot mer 
eyes evvy timer think ’bout dat sight wotter seed. Dar 
was de print er de pony’s foot on dat sweet liT boy’s 
face, an’ ol’ master sont me ter tek kyeer er dat boy! 
Er wuz skeerd anner wuz mad anner wuz sorry. Er run 
ter de liT boy anner pick him up anner laid him in dese 
berry arms. Er seed he face wuz fuller blood an’ he jiss 
wuz breevin. Er laid him down on de groun anner tuck 
mer coat off anner med er piller out’n hit, anner look 
erroun fur dat pony. Dar he wuz grazin on de grass jiss 
lak he dun nuffin. Er dunno wotter do. Er knowed ol* 
marster gwineter kill me, er jiss knowed dat, fur dat 
sweet li’F boy wuz sho de apple er he eye. Er tekker look 
at de liT boy laying dar on de groun jisses still! No 
laugh now. He jiss breevin slow lak, anner dunno wot- 
ter do. *Er rund ter de spring anner fotcher gode er 
water. Er hoi’ him up anner ax him ter drink. He open 
he poorty blue eye, jiss lak dem eyes yer got, anner say, 
drink some water, honey. All de timer lookin roun ter 
seed ef ol’ marster comin wid he gun ter kill me, kase 
er knowed ol’ marster. Er knowed wot he do ter any- 
body wot hut dat chile er ’low him ter git hut. De liT 


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100 STORIES IN* BLACK 


boy drink some water anner wash de blood frnn he face, 
an’ dar wuz de print er dat pony shoe on he face jisses 
plain ! De water mekkim better. 'Bout dat time er look 
roun an dar wuz ol’ marster comin inner canter on dat 
big hoss he used ter ride. Denner say ter merse’f, Jake 
yer better be er prayin. 01’ marster seed us. He jump 
down off n he hoss an he rund up. Dar er wuz lookin 
fur ol’ marster ter kill me. He ben' over de boy an’ he 
ax wot de matter. Er fred ter tell him, but de liT boy 
he say, granpar, efferder dun wot Jake tell me ter do dis 
sho wouldn't er happen. He say, hit war all mer fault, 
granpar, Jake tol' me ter stop foolin' wid de pony an he 
th’owed me. Wot ol’ marster do? He tek up de li’1' boy 
in he arms, and he say, jisses gentle lak, fotch de hosses 
ter de house, Jake, er jiss furgit ter tell de boy ter mine 
yer, an’ he gotter do wot yer say atter dis. Ol' Jake wuz 
sho happy w’en ol’ marster say dat. An evvy timer seed 
er liT boy lak you is, er seed dot liT boy wid de print er 
de pony shoe in he face an hit mine mer er dat time." 

“Did the little boy get well?" asked Johnnie. 

“Cose he git well, honey, but dat pony shoe show in 
he face tell de day he daid. Some time nuvver er tell 
yer mo' 'bout dat liT boy," and the old man returned to 
his work. 


ALL MOTHERS ARE ALIKE. 

Booker Washington Giles is the name he is burdened 
with, and his mother thinks that because of the name he 
is the smartest boy in his school. She can’t read herself, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


87 


and when Booker reels off things they sound cute to her. 
Where Booker gets these things, there is no telling. But 
with all Booker’s smartness, his mother has trouble with 
him. He goes down town and he stays a long time. 
Then she jumps on him. She may send him after a 
dime’s worth of sugar and he returns with a dime’s worth 
of soap, and she jumps on him again. Then she may 
suppose he is out in the yard playing, but he may be 
miles away. 

And Booker is no fool. Knowing his mother’s pride 
in him, he is always ready with some smart saying to 
soothe her wrath, and he gets off light. 

Yesterday morning he was sitting on the fence watch- 
ing a chance to flip a buckshot at some pigeons, but the 
pigeons were shy, and he gave vent to the following: 

“Mar on de back po’ch shellin peas, 

Par in de pyarlor nussin he knees, 

Dog in de backyod cotchin fleas, 

Dat gimme chaince ter dooz er please.” 

Then his mother wanted him. She went in the yard 
to look for him and Booker spied her. He knew that 
she was after him to do something and he wanted to stay 
around and flip a pigeon. Then she called him. 

“Booker Wash’ton. Oh, Booker Wash’ton !” 

But Booker, who heard her, made no answer. He slid 
down from the fence and got behind it. 

“Booker Wash’ton 1” 

But there was no response, but knowing him as she 
did, she knew he was somewhere around and was listen- 
ing at her calling him. Then she tried her trick 


88 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

“Er wusher had somebody ter go git mer er water- 
milyun.” 

Booker pricked up his ears. Then he wondered how 
he could suddenly appear without arousing suspicion. He 
crawled along the fence to the front and went singing 
through the house to where his mother was. 

“Whar in de namer de Lawd yer ben, Booker Wash- 
ton? Hyere er is benner callin yer anner callin yer, an* 
yer nevvy hyeered me. Whar yer ben, honey ?” 

“Er jis ben out’n de street out dar playin.” 

“Didn’t yer hyeered mer jisser callin yer?” 

“W’en yer call me, mar?” 

‘Jis lissun at dat ! Er benner callin yer fur er hour. 
Yer benner playin wid dat Breedlove boy, dat wot yer 
benner doin. Yer kaint fool me, an’ me er callin yer 
anner callin yer.” 

“Wot yer want wid me, mar?” 

“Want yer ter tek yer par dinner ter him, dat wotter 
want wid yer. Tek dat baskit an’ tote yerse’f off ter de 
shop an’ gi’ yer par he dinner.” 

“Is yer gwineter gitter watermilyun, mar?” 

“Er say gitter watermilyun an dey forty-center piece ! 
Yer muss be loozin yer mine. How dat git in yer haid?” 

“Er dreem lass night yer buyed er watermilyun ter- 
day, yassum er did.” 

“Go way fum hyere! Tek dat baskit er tell yer. Yer 
par waitin fur he dinner right dis minnit. Dreem ’bout 
gittin er watermilyn ! Yer is sho loozin yer mine.” 

“Wusher hadder watermilyun. Ain had no watermil- 
yun dis year. Er seed uvver boys haves watermilyun, an- 
ner dunno how come wese ain had none.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 89 

“Tek up dat baskit an tek yer par he dinner, er tell 
yer! How many mo’ times er gotter tell yer dat?” 

“Jim Breedlove say he mar guv him some watermil- 
yun.” 

“Booker Wash’ton! Ef yer sayes watermilyun ergin 
er sho will tek er stick ter yer. Tek dat dinner ter yer 
par! Er ainter gwineter tell yer many mo’ times.” 

“Er knowed ernuvver boy wot eat some dis year, too.” 

“Jis keep on ! Jis keep on ! Fuss noos yer knows yer 
gwineter git er frailin. Tek dat dinner ter yer par, hit 
gittin col’.” 

“Gwineter git me one w’enner come back?” 

But this was too much. The mar grabbed a stick of 
wood and she laid it on heavy on Booker. He went out 
of the yard crying, with the basket, but no sooner was he 
out of sight than she went to her bed, lifted the mattress, 
and from the corner of a handkerchief she took the last 
half dollar she had in the world, and when Booker came 
back there was a watermelon. 


CROSS ALLEY CONVERSATION. 

Across the alley from kitchen windows. Both cooks 
waiting for the white folks to get through dinner. 

“Wuz yer at de chu’ch lass night, Sister Harris?” 

“No, chile, de ol’ mans so po’ly datter hatter stay wid 
him. He musser eat sump’n dat doan ’gree wid him. 
He sho wuz sick, but he some better dis mawnin. Wuz 
you at de chu’ch, Sister Mitchell ?” 

“Coser didn’t go. Doan yer knowed ’bout dat Martin 


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gal gittin marrit? Er wuz ax ter de weddin, an dar 
whar er went. Hit sho wuzzer swell weddin. How 
come yer didn’t go, Sister Harris ? Didn’t yer gitter in- 
vite ?” 

“Er sho didn’t. Me’n dat Martin oomans ain spoke 
er wud inner dunno w’en.” 

“Hush ! Dat noos ter me, sho. How come you’n her 
doan speak?” 

“She de oomans wotter had dat fuss wid way back yan- 
ner ’ bout mer ol’ mans. Doan yer knowed dat time w’enner 
cotch him an’ her gwine ter prar meeting dat night er so 
sick? Dat de time. Er sho did fool dat oomans. Dar 
er wuzzer layin flatter mer back sickser hoss, an’ de liT 
gal wot lives in de jinin lot come tell me ’bout Peter an’ 
dat Martin oomans gwine off down de rode, an’ me 
jisser layin dar on de baid, dunno wevver er gwineter 
git up er no. Er jump out’n dat baid lakker nevvy wuz 
sick, an’ er juk on mer frock anner put some ol* shoes 
on mer footsies anner sail out’n dat house lak hit on fi’. 
Er scoots down de rode anner seed um, mer ol’ mans an’ 
dat Martin oomans, walkin long jisses slow an mouty 
nigh ter one ernuvver, lookin lak deys doan kyeer ef deys 
gitter chu’ch. Er crope up hine um anner look roun fur 
er brick. Bless de Lawd, dar wuz one right in mer paff. 
Er pick hit up jisses easy, an’ er kep’ onner cropin up 
teller git right er hine um. Deys too busy talkin ter seed 
me. Er hilt de brick up so er kin gitter good aim, an 
denner let hit fly. Yer mout say er izzer tellin uvver lie, 
but er hit dat oomans in de small er de back, kerblim ! 
Dat knock de breff out’n her, an’ she squat down lak she 
gwineter die right dar in de street. Mer ol’ mans so 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


91 


skyeered he ain nevvy seed me yit, but he sho rund. Er 
seed him gwine down de rode jisser bu’nnin de win, an- 
ner knowed he wuz gwine atter de medcin dat de doctor 
sont him atter. Denner went back ter de house an git 
back in de baid. Atter w’ile hyere come Peter wid de 
medcin. Er say, Peter, whar in de namer de Lawd yer 
ben all dis time? He say, er meet de boss mans down 
town, an he tell me whot he wants me ter do ter-morrer, 
kase he gwine out’n town. Er tol’ de boss you iz sick 
anner gotter hurry back, but he jiss keep on er talkin. 
De wuk hit er pickin up now, he say, an he gwine ter 
riz my pay atter dis mont’. Er look at Peter out’n de 
cornder er mer eye, kase Peter ain no good han at tellin 
er lie, anner say, spec yer benner talkin ter some oomans, 
ef de trufe wuz telled. Peter he flare up, an he say, dog- 
gone de oomans, wotter wants ter be er talkin' ter er 
oomans w’enner got de besses wife dat any man's got, 
doan kyeer who he is. Er say, Peter, er hadder dream 
sence yer ben gone. Er so sick datter lay mer haid on 
der piller anner go souner sleep. Denner dream. Wot 
yer reckin er dream, Peter? He say, er declar er doan 
know, wot yer dream, honey? Er say, er wuzzer gwine 
down de street an fuss noos yer knowed er seed er mans 
anner oomans walkin long jisses slow lak, an’ dey wuz 
so close by de sider one ernuvver dat deys totch. Denner 
seed ernuvver oomans cropin up hine um. Dar de mans 
an’ de oomans wuzzer pokin erlong lak dey haves all 
night ter go whar dey gwine ter, an dar wuz de oomans 
right er hine um. Denner seed de oomans wot right er 
hine um pick upper brick, hit look lakker brick, but hit 
mouter benner rock, an’ fuss noos yer know er seed dat 


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oomans wot gotter brick inner han haul back an let de 
oomans haves dat brick right in de back. Er seed her 
squat anner hyeerd her squall an’ denner seed de mans 
rund erway lak he got bisniss some whar sides dat place. 
Er look at Peter, an’ dar wuz de sweat jisser po’in off’n 
him. An* sence dat time Peter nevvy went nigh dat 
oomans.” 

“An’ yer ain nevvy tell him no mo’?” 

“Ain ben no skuse fur hit. Yer kaint git Peter ter 
look atter oomans cep’n she in mer house whar er kin be 
dar ter seed him.” 

“Look hyere, Sister Harris, er hopes yer ain fool nuff 
ter bleeve all dat.” 

“Er sho is. Yer dunno Peter lak er knows him. He 
skyeerder me, he is.” 

“Er mout not know Peter, butter knows menses. Er 
doan truss no nigger. Dey mek out dey doan look at 
no oomans cep’n dey wifes, but dey doan fool dis chile. 
Butter hyeer de miss callin. Er seed yer later.” 

“So long, Sister Mitchell, hoper seed yer ter de chu’ch 
Sundy.” 

Both cooks get busy at the tables, and both stud’n ’bout 
Peter, and wondering if his wife really cured him. 


MIND-READING IN YAMACRAW. 

When word was sent out that there would be a mind- 
reading entertainment at the residence of Puss Shaw, at 
“de fur een er Dog Alley,” last night, all Yamacraw was 
excited. Much had been heard about a lady at one of 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


93 


the little theaters reading the minds of those who attend- 
ed the performance, and the Yamacrawlers wanted a 
chance to see some of it just as well as white folks. 

Puss Shaw had loaned her house for the occasion on 
the promise of half the door receipts, which was five 
cents per head, and there was something in the neighbor- 
hood of a dollar and a half in the room when the per- 
formance was ready to begin. The mind-reader had 
everything arranged. At one end of the room was a 
large dry goods box, in which a man was concealed. He 
was armed with a section of gas pipe, which ran through 
an auger hole, and was intended as a speaking tube to 
convey messages to the mind reader above him, while 
he looked through a knothole in the box at those who 
were brave enough to ask foolish questions. 

The entertainment began with a veiled and blindfolded 
female coming out of a back room and being carefully 
lifted to the box on which had been placed a chair. When 
she was seated she asked that a sheet be thrown over her. 
When this was done, unseen by the audience, the man 
in the box pushed his section of gas pipe through the 
hole in the top and glued his eye to the knothole. Then 
the audience was requested to ask questions. 

“Tell me wotter got on mer min’ dis minnit?” asked 
Jane Harris. 

“Dat’s dat bow-laigged Jane Harris. Yer gotter 
heaper gall axin wot yer got on yer min’, w’en evvybody 
know yer aint got any min’ came in sepulchral tones 
from under the sheet. 

Jane felt like thirty cents, but she held her tongue. 

"Wot izzer t’inkin’ bout?’ , asked Lou Davis. 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Whar yer kin gitter botler bear, dat wot yer t’inkin’ 
’bout, yer box-ankle Lou Davis,” was shot out from un- 
der the sheet. 

There was a lull. Such mind-reading as this was dis- 
couraging, but the audience was stirred to action when 
was heard from under the sheet, “Ef yer doan quit tick- 
lin’ mer foots er smack yer jaw.” 

In sailed Buckeye Bill from Jacksonville. He had just 
heard of the mind-reading and wanted a reading at once. 

“Say, yer graveyard ghostes up dar on dat box. Wots 
on mer min’?” 

“Wot yer need izzer fine-toof com’, dat wot yer need.” 

“Er izzer gwineter tekker curry com’ ter yer ef yer 
gimme any yer slack. Ef yer izzer min’ reader, read mer 
min’ an’ yer reader right, lemme tell yer.” 

“Er see er big buck nigger. Look lak he come fum 
Jacksons- villes. He jiss lousy wid money, all kiner 
money. He spin he money mouty free. He gotter gal 
name Gladys Jackson. He ainter treatin’ dat gal right. 
He aint ben ter see her inner mont’ er Sundys. Look lak 
he gotter nuvver gal. He got on he min’ right now he 
gwineter gi’ Gladys er lotter money kase he ainter ben- 
ner treatin’ her right, an’ he know hit — quit ticklin’ mer 
foots er tell yer !” 

“Will de lady tell me effer is gwineter git marrit?” 
came in a feminine voice from near the door. 

“Yer sho is. You dat gal wot de jedge sont ter de 
chaingang fur chawin’ gum wid yer fauss toofies.” The 
mind-reader was cruel. 

“Is mer husbun true ter me?” asked a fat woman. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


95 


“Dat Fatty Fan. Cose he is. How yer spec him to be 
anyt’ing else w’en he ben daid fo year?” 

“Er losser gol’ watch widder dimon’ in hit — kin yer 
tell me who stole dat watch ?” 

“Look hyere, Marne Thomas, yer aint nevvy hadder 
watch, an’ yer try ter mek out fo dese peoples dat yer 
had one. Yer oughter be er shamer yerse’f.” 

“Is mer ol’ mans gwineter git well ?” 

“Ef yer kin he’p hit he ainter gwineter git well. Er 
knows yer, Paralee Simmons. Yer jisser hopin’ yer ol’ 
mans go daid so yer kin fly roun’ wid Buckeye Bill.” 

“Wot de nummer er dat shoe datter wair, tell me dat 
ef yer knows so much ?” 

“Number lebbuns, yer snaggle-toof Bughouse Betsy 
Passmo’. Jiss kase yer got onner pa’r er lowdown quar- 
ter shoes, yer t’ink mek peoples bleeve yer gotter li’l’ 
footses.” 

All this time Buckeye Bill had been brooding over 
the insult as to Gladys Jackson having been badly treated 
by him. And when the mind-reader threw her cruel 
taunt toward Bughouse Betsy, another friend of his, he 
arose and went straight to the box. One jerk was suffi- 
cient to get the mind-reader off the box, and it took but 
another minnit to turn the box over ; there was his deadly 
enemy, Haslit Pete, curled up. The sheet was taken off 
the mind-reader, and there was Slowfoot Sal, as natural 
as could be. Haslit Pete held to the section of gas pipe, 
and the audience scattered. 

When it was all over, and the women whom Sal had 
slandered during the course of the evening had done with 


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her, the police came. All had fled but Sal, and she would 
have gone but for physical disabilities. 

“Were you the mind-reader ?” the police asked her. 

“Lemme tell yer, mister, er has mo’ doggone luck dan 
anybody, er sho do. Hit was dat nigger wot deys call 
Haslit Pete. How de namer Gawd kinner seed dem peo- 
ples an’ me wrop up inner sheet anner sweatin’ lakker 
nigger to er ’leckshun. Hit wuz Haslit Pete mekkin me 
say dem t’ings. An’ de lowdown triflin’ nigger dun rund 
off wid all money wot deys tek in at de do’. Lemme go, 
jiss dis time, mister. Deys beat me mouty nigh ter deff.” 

For once the police allowed Sal to stay where she was, 
satisfied that she had been sufficiently punished. 


THE BRIBE. 

“Whar de namer Gawd yer git dat hat, Calline ?” 

Caroline walked into the house with a fashionable mon- 
strosity on her head, and the moment her mother spied it 
she wanted to know something about it. 

“Dis de noo styler hats, mar. Wot yer think ’bout 
hit?” 

“Ef yer wuzzun mer gal, er tell yer mouty quick wot- 
ter think ’bout hit ! Dunno now effer kin keep fum tellin’ 
yer. Whar hit come fum, Calline? Doan tell me dat 
yer buyed hit!” 

“How yer reckin er kin buyed er hat lak dat ? Dat hat 
sell down town fur ten dollars.” 

“Fur de lanner Goshen ! Ten dollars ! Ain dat mouty 
cheap fur er hat lak dat ? Er wuzzer lookin fur yer ter 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 97 

say hit coss heap mo’n dat. Dat sho izzer fine hat. But 
yer ain yit tol’ me whar hit come fum.” 

“Bill Jackson sont hit ter me fur er buffday present, 
dat whar hit come fum.” 

“Hush! Bill Jackson sont yer dat hat fur er buff day 
present! Mer goodniss, whar Bill git all dat money? 
Yer kaint fool dis chick’n, Calline. Bill Jackson ain got 
dat much money ter th’ow way on er hat lak dat. Er 
benner knowin dat Bill Jackson evvy since he er knee- 
high ter er doodle-bug, an he ain nevvy had dat much 
money. How yer knows, honey, dat he sont hit ter yer ?” 

“Hit come widder letter fum him, an he say hit fur 
mer buffday.” 

“How Bill Jackson knowed w’en yer buffday come?” 

“Er writ hit ter him, but wot yer wants ter know all 
bout dat fur, mar? Ef Bill Jackson want er sont me 
dis hat, wot yer wants ter kick up bout hit fur?” 

“Er is yer mar, anner doan lak fur no gal er mine ter 
be er puttin no hat on her haid dat coss dat much money, 
doan kyeer ef hit izzer buffday present. Looky hyere, 
gal, yer buffday er week fo Chris’mas, an hyere hit tain 
July yit. Sump’n wrong bout dat hat. Yer ainter tellin 
me de trufe bout dat hat. Fuss place Bill Jackson kaint 
buyed no hat lak dat. Den yer buffday doan come tell 
week fo Chris’mas. Sump’n wrong bout dat hat sho’s 
yer bawnded.” 

“Er dunno wot gittin in yer, mar. Kaint er young 
mans sont me er hat dout yer all de time kickin upper 
bout hit? Dat ain nuffin fur er young mans ter sont de 
young lady wot he gwineter marry er hat lak dis.” 

“Gwineter marry! Who he gwineter marry? Who 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


say he gwineter marry yer? Er ain sayed so yit, anner 
reckin er got sump’n ter do wid dat bisniss. Yer gwine- 
ter sont dat hat right back ter dat Bill Jackson, dat wot 
yer gwineter do.” 

“Er tell yer right now, mar, ef yer mek me sont de hat 
back, er is gwineter sont dat present wot he sont you, 
back, too, an dat de trufe.” 

“Wot dat fool nigger sont me, de low-down triflin 
raskil! Dat nigger nevvy wuz no count. Wot he sont 
me? Spec hit er ten-cent botler ha’r ile er sump’n lak 
dat.” 

“In de letter wot come wid de hat he sont yer dis ten- 
dollar bill, an he say being ez he dunno wot yer wants, | 
yer kin tek de money — an buyed yer wot yer want.” 

“Hush! Lemme seed dat ten-dollar bill. An Bill 
Jackson sont dat ter me? Hit look lak hit er sho nuff 
ten-dollar bill. Whar yer reckin he git all dat money, , 
honey? Ef dat doan beat mer time. An he sont dis ter 
me ! Ef dat — whar he git alls dat money, chile ?” 

“He got he laig cut off ber de railroad, and deys gi’ j 
him er whole heaper money ef he doan sue de railroad. 
He say in de letter dat he rich ez anybody now. He say 
effer wants er orterbeel he sho git me one.” 

“De po’ mans ! Look lak dem railroads gwineter rune 
all de menses, cuttin off dey laigs an mashin um ter deff.; 
Er is mouty sorry Bill got he laig cut off. How come 1 
yer didn’t tell me dat he got he laig cut off fuss? Er! ' 
knowed dat boy fo he war britches. He wuzzer mouty , 
good boy. An he sont me dis ter buyed wotter wants! 1 
W’en you’n him gwineter git marrit, honey?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 99 

“He writ in de letter dat he ready any time yer say 
wese kin git marrit. He leave hit ter you. ,, 

“Dat sho izzer poorty hat ! Wunner ef he pick dat 
out hese’f ! He sho gotter heaper sense bout pickin out 
er hat. Wush he had two laigs, but de Lawd will per- 
vide.” 

“Yer ain tol me wot ter writ ter him bout us gittin 
marrit, yit, anner gwineter writ him dis evenin.” 

“Spec yer better tell him dat de sooner de job dun de 
bess off yer alls be.” 

And the mother fondled the ten-dollar bill. 

UNCLE ISOM’S STAR. 

The balminess of the morning brought out of the stuffy 
house a dainty little girl to frolic among the flowers that 
were trying to force themselves into bloom and blossom. 

Shambling along was an old negro man, gray and 
grizzled. How old he was, he didn’t know, for he be- 
longed to the kind whose ages were kept by the ol’ mis- 
sus, and at her death the record was obliterated, but it 
was plain that he had long since past the threescore and 
ten mark. 

Seeing the child, so sweet and fresh and winsome, the 
old man stopped in front of the house and gazed as at a 
vision. And the child was not afraid. Somehow the 
southern child has no fear of the old negro. As it was 
in the old days of slavery times, between the old negroes 
and the children there is a strong bond, an implicit con- 
fidence. 


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“Goo’ mawnin, young missus,” said the old man, lifting 
his battered hat and scraping his foot on the sidewalk. 

“Good morning, Uncle, ain’t this a pretty morning?” 

“Hit sho’ is, honey. Wot yer doin, chile, gittin yer 
some er dem flowers?” 

“I am going to make a button-hole bouquet for father,” 
and the little girl busied herself plucking the struggling 
flowers in the yard. 

“Dat right, dat right ! Lor bless yer sweet life, young 
missus, yer sho’ do mine me er de young missus wotter 
used ter know way, w-a-y back yander w’en dese ol’ eyes 
could see an’ dese ol’ laigs could gitter ’bout bettem deys 
do now.” 

“Let me give you one of these violets, and then I want 
you to tell me about the little girl you used to know,” 
and the sweet child placed with her white hands a violet 
in the ragged button-hole of the weather-beaten coat. 

“Dunno how long ago hit wuz, chile, but hit fo de war. 
Cose yer dunno nuffln ’bout de war, but hit fo de war, er 
knows dat. Dar wuz ol’ miss an’ li’1’ miss an’ young 
missus — she de one er gwineter tell yer ’bout. She jiss 
lak you, honey. She got de same kiner ha’r an’ her eyes 
blue de sames you got. Evvy mawnin de good Lawd sen’ 
young missus corned out’n de big house all dress up in 
dem poorty clo’es an’ she say, Unk Isom, how Aunt 
Cindy dis mawnin? Er say she tollubble, young missus, 
how yer coprossity seem ter gashate dis mawnin? jiss 
datter way, kaser wuz jisser havin’ mer fun widder. She 
say, yer dooz use some mouty big wuds, Unk Isom, an- 
ner say er larn ’em fum yer par, and she laugh an’ laugh. 
Den she go in de yod an’ she pick some flowers, jiss lak 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


101 


yer pickin’ em now, an’ she gavver upper han’fuller dese 
yer johnquils an’ she brung me one, an’ she say ef yer 
doan w’ar dis, Unk Isom, er sho gwineter git reel mad 
wid yer. Lor bless mer soul ! an’ me er big black nigger 
spo’tin’ dat yaller johnquil jiss lakker wuzzer her sweet- 
heart! Hit kep’ on datter way evvy day, tell bimebye 
dey sont dat chile ter town ter go ter school. She stay 
erway er mouty long time, an’ den she corned home. She 
er mouty fine liT miss now, she er young lady, an’ she 
all dress up in dem fine clo’es tell hit look lak she too 
clean fur de bushes ter totch her. W’enner come fum 
de fiel’ dat day an’ dey toP me dat de li’P miss dun come, 
er say ter merse’f jisso, wunner ef she too proud an’ 
stuck up ter speak ter Unk Isom. Dey ain’t no tellin’ 
’bout dese people wot leave de ol’ home an’ live in town 
fur er w’ile. But wot dat chile do? Soons she seed me, 
Lor bless her sweet soul ! she rund ter me an’ put dem 
poorty w’ite aams roun’ dis ol’ nigger’s neck, an’ hug me 
jiss de sames er wuzzer her par! Dat wot she dun! 
She up dar in dat blue sky right now, chile, an’ she look 
down at dis po’ ol’ nigger evvy night dat come.” 

“How do you know that, Uncle?” 

“Jiss kaser do, honey. Evvy night w’en hit aint cloudy, 
er looks out’n mer do’ over yander ter de eas’ whar de 
sun rise, an’ dar izzer star, an’ dat star shine so bright, 
an’ hit tweenkle so all de timer look at hit, datter jiss 
bleeged ter know dat her, an’ she tryin’ her berry bes’ 
ter say er izzer waitin’ fur yer, Unk Isom ! Er jiss know 
hit her, fur hit kaint be nobody else. Dar ain’t nuffin’ 
in dis wul, an’ dar aint nuffin in hebb’n — doan kyeer how 
many uvver ainjils dar is up dar — dat poorty ez she is, 


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an’ dat wot mek me know hit her. But de cook callin' 
yer, honey, ter go eat yer brekfus, anner gotter tell yer 
goo’bye. Yer sho mek de ol’ mans feel good dis mawnin’, 
Gawd bless yer.” 

And as the old man shambled off, the little girl slowly 
walked up the steps, looking back at him, and wondering 
if when she died and went to heaven, she would look 
down on those she loved on earth through some bright 
and twinkling star. 


SLEEP SICKNESS. 

The draymen were eating their dinner, each on his 
dray and bending over their buckets. For ten minutes 
they directed all their attention to the contents of the 
buckets, but as soon as the bulk of the dinner had dis- 
appeared they began their usual talk. 

“How come wese ain hyeerd nuffin fum Mister Rucy- 
vel lately?” asked Pete. 

“Who he? He er noo un on me,” said Jim. 

“Go long, Jim, Mister Rucyvel, dat used ter be de 
pres-dent, wot went ter Afky ter shoot de elfunts an’ de 
lines.” 

“Oh, er knows who yer talkin’ ’bout now. How come 
yer doan say Pres’dent Rozevelt? How yer spec any- 
body ter know who yer talkin’ ’bout w’en yer say Mister 
Rucyvel ? Dunno wot come er him. Spec er elfunt tromp 
on him.” 

“Spec one er dem lines chaw him up. Dem dar lines 
ainter gwineter stan’ no foolishness, doan kyeer ef he 


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103 • 


izzer pres’dent. Line ain got time ter be axin who izyer 
W’en one er dem lines say come across, yer comin , er 
cross, er tell yer.” 

“Mer liT gal wot reed de paper say deys gotter sick- 
niss over dar in Afky deys call de sleepy sickniss. Yer 
git so sick yer go ter sleep, er yer git so sleepy yer git 
sick, er dunno w’ich, but hit one er de tuvver, an’ dat 
wotter spec he got, an’ dat de reezin’ yer ain hyeerd 
nuffin ’bout him lately.” 

‘‘Tell me sump’n mo’ bout dat sleepy bisniss. How 
long dooz yer sleep when yer sick datter way?” Pete was 
after information. 

“Mer liT gal say yer sleep six mont’s dout wakin’ up,” 
said Bill, who always wanted to make out that his little 
gal was educated. 

“Dat over dar in Afky, whar dem lines an’ tigers an’ 
elfunts an’ gerafs an’ nekkid niggers is?” 

“Dat wot mer liT gal say, an’ she reed de paper.” 

“An’ yer lays down an tekker nap fur six mont’s.” 

“Yer sho do.” 

“Dar is big snakes over dar, too, ain’ dey?” 

“Er is jis tellin yer wot mer li’P gal say, an’ she reed 
de paper.” 

“How big dem snakes?” 

“Some uvvum stretch fum hyere down ter de pos* 
office.” 

“How bigger roun’?” 

“Wot de matter wid yer, nigger? Yer jiss keep onner 
axin’ queshuns, jiss keep on. Yer sho’ gittin’ bughouse.” 

“Wil’ cats over dar too, ain dey?” 

“Cose dey is, wil’ cats an’ pole cats, an’ all kiner cats.” 


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“An’ yer kin lay down an’ sleep six mont’s dout wakin’ 
up, an’ nuffin doan bovver yer — nunner dem snakes an’ 
lines an’ tigers an’ gerafs an’ elfunts ! Is deys any skeet- 
ers over dar?” 

“Deys got skeeters over dar dat bigger nuff ter bo’ er 
hole in de elfunt’s skin, dat wot deys got.” 

“How big de flies deys got over dar?” 

“Mer liT gal says deys look lak tukky buzzuds.” 

“How ’bout de ants?” 

“Deys milk de ants lak deys milk de cows.” 

“An’ yer kin lays down an’ git sick wid sleep fur 
six mont’s, an’ yer wakes up in de same place?” 

“Dat wot mer li’l gal say, an’ she reed de paper.” 

“Bill, me’en you ben frens er mouty long time, anner 
doan wants ter haves any fuss wid yer, but yer sho raisin’ 
dat gal de wrong way. Any gal dat tell sich yer tales ez 
dat ain right in her haid. Yer better tek dat gal fum 
school right now. Ef she keep on lak she stotted, deys 
ain no tellin’ wot she gwineter be w’en she growed up. 
Dat wot mek me say datter doan bleeve in eddicatin’ de 
nigger. Hit sho do spile um. Yer li’l’ gal dun spile right 
now, an’ ef deys evvy git her over dar in Afky she gwine- 
ter cotch dat sleep sickniss jisses soons she hit de groun’.” 

Bill wondered if his li’l’ gal was being complimented or 
not. 


THE COCAINE SNIFFER. 

Sallie Peters, known as White-Eye Sal, and the widow 
of Kitten-Eye Tom, long since gathered to his fathers, 


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105 


appeared as the prosecutor of Mary Killian. She stated 
to the court that she had given Mary 50 cents and a doc- 
tor’s prescription to get her some cocaine, and that Mary 
failed to bring her the drug and refused to give up the 
money. Therefore she had Mary arrested and charged 
with larceny. 

“What did you pay the doctor for this?” asked the 
court, after reading the prescription. 

“Some timer pays him 50 cent, an’ some timer pays 
him 15 cent. He gimme de med-cine fur mer sickness, 
dat wot he do,” said Sallie. 

“What is your sickness ?” 

“Er got de guitar er mer haid.” 

“You mean catarrh of the head?” 

“Dat wotter sayed, de guitar er de haid.” 

“Tell me about this, Mary.” 

“Dis de fustest time datter evvy ben in dis cote, jedge, 
anner gwineter tell yer de trufe, kase de trufe is de light. 
W’ite-eye Sal, wot deys call her, she earned ter Miss Nan- 
cy’s whar er wuz, an’ she say, Mary ! anner say, huh ! She 
say tek dis 50-cent an’ go ter de drug sto’an’git dis scrip- 
shun put up. Er say, how come yer doan go atter yer 
med’ein yerse’f, stidder axin’ me ter go git hit ? She say, 
er got de guitar in mer haid so bad er kaint hodly gitter 
’bout. Er tekker 50-cent anner get de med’ein anner 
fotch hit right back too her, an’ she onrop hit an’ she 
skuse me er tekkin’ ha’f hit out. Jedge, er nevvy sniff 
dat cocaine sence er ben bawnded, er sho didn’t. Den 
she call de poleeces, dat wot she dun, jedge. She all de 
timer sniffin’ dat stuff. Some time she see de monkeys 
and de debbuls. She dunno wot she doin’ haffer time.” 


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“Er tek de med’cin fur de guitar in mer haid, jedge, 
dat all er tek hit fur/’ said Sallie. 

“Do you sing much?” asked the court seriously. 

“Er izzer mouty po’ singer, jedge; how come yer ax 
me dat?” 

“Because you seem to carry your guitar in your head.” 
There was a faint effort at applause in the court room at 
the excellence of this joke, but the court sternly rapped 
for order. 

“Jedge, dat oomans ainter tellin’ yer de trufe. She do 
sing. She sing all de time w’en she ain sleep. She de 
outbanginest gal fur singin’ yer evvy seed. W’en she 
tekker sniffen er dat cocaine an’ sot down on de do’-step 
atter supper, she jis let loose. Dar ain nobody wot kin 
sleep w’en she op’n dat mout’er hern. She mek out dat 
she kaint sing less she feel bad wid de guitar in her haid.” 

“She is like Artemus Ward, perhaps. She is saddest 
when she sings,” observed the court. 

“She sho is, jedge. Evvy time she sing dat dog she 
got in de yod he set upper howlin’ tell yer kaint hyeer 
yer years. She sing an’ de dog he howl. An’ dey keep 
dat up de whole night long. Any dem peoples down dar 
tell yer dat. Dey sho will.” 

There was no case against Mary, and she was told 
to go. Then Sallie was heard on the charge of loitering. 
The officers all know her, and testified that she was never 
known to work, and that for years she had been a cocaine 
sniffer, giving as an excuse for taking the drug that she 
had catarrh of the head. Called on to say something on 
this charge, she had the idea that a loiterer was a person 
who did not work. 


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“Cose er doan wuk ! Wotter gotter husbun fur? Mer 
husbun spote me lakker lady. Sides dat, how de namer 
de Lawd yer spec me ter wuk w’en er got dis guitar in 
mer haid? Tell me dat. Jedge, ef you hadder guitar 
in yer haid yer wouldn’t work neever.” 

“No, I would play,” and there was another attempt 
at applause, which was quickly suppressed. 

“Dat wotter do, jedge, er jiss play. Er doan hafter 
wuk w’enner gotter husbun ter wuk fur me. Some er 
dese niggers ain got de sense dey wuz bawnded wid. 
Come up hyere tellin’ de cote datter doan wuk ! Hitter 
shame de way some niggers dooz, hit sho is.” 

Sallie was found guilty of loitering on the streets and 
fined $10. This was paid by her husband, and she went 
on her way to a drug store for a supply of the stuff she 
sniffs up her nose. 


THE TYBEE DEBATING SOCIETY. 

Not to be outdone by Yamacraw, the people of Tybee 
decided on having a debate. William Warren had been 
a janitor in some college where he saw a debate, and 
he worked the thing up. They met at the home of Lou 
Crawford, whose daughter had ambitions to cut loose 
from low-down niggers and swell some, and she moved 
the beds and things out of the big front room for the 
occasion. 

Rev. Wall-Eye Thomas, of Yamacraw, was made presi- 
dent by reason of his being a preacher, and supposed 
to have experience as a presiding officer. He lost no 


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time in starting the debate. The question was: What 
makes drunk come quickest, ni-beer, beer, or whisky? 

The judges, having been selected by the president, who 
chose two men and one woman, the president stated the 
question, and the talk began. 

“Mister Cha’rman, yer wants ter know wot mek drunk 
come de quickist, dis yer ni-bear de ginnerwine bear, er 
licker. Hit cordin’ ter how much yer drink. Dat all er 
gotter say.” This was Jim Passmore, who wanted to 
let his girl know that he wasn’t afraid to speak. 

“Mister Cha’rman,” sung out Buckeye Bill, who 
thought he had as much right to talk as anybody, “deys 
aint no ni-beer so yer jiss cut dat out, kase effit ni-bear 
hitter heap bettern de ginnerwine. Ef dat so, den de 
queshun is: Which mek drunk come, bear er licker? 
Dunno nuffin’ ’bout yer rule fur er ’batin’ s’iety, butter 
tell yer right now, bear aint in hit wid licker ter mek 
drunk come. Dese yer fellers wot say dey git drunk on 
bear deys hogs, kase hit tek er mouty heaper bear ter 
mek yer drunk. Yer kin tek fo drinks er dis stuff wot 
dey sells yer fur licker an’ wot yer pay forty cents fur, 
an’ yer git so drunk yer dunno w’en dey fotch yer up 
in de mizry waggin, but yer gotter drinkt mo’n er dozen 
bottles er bear ter mek yer sorter feel lak yer gittin’ 
drunk. Dat cos’ yer dollar’n twenty cent. Now yer 
knows no nigger gwineter pay er dollar’n twenty cent 
ter git drunk w’en he kin git drunk on forty cent.” 

“De gemman clean off de track,” said Bill Warren, 
“wese ainter axin’ how much hit costes ter git drunk, an’ 
wot de cheapes’ ter git drunk on, wese axin’ w’ich mek 


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109 


de drunk come de quickist, ni-bear, ginnerwine bear, er 
licker ? Some mens mek out dey so smot.” 

‘ Look hyere, Bill Warren, er didn’t come up hyere ter 
picker fuss wid anybody, but ef yer mekker nuwer break 
lak dat, dar is sho ter be er rucus,” answered Buckeye 
rather hotly. 

“Efyer t’inks dar is anybody roun’ hyere dat skyeerder 
yer, Mister Buckeye, yer sho got hit down on de wrong 
book,” flashed back Bill. 

“Dar muss be awder is dis house,” said Rev. Wall- 
Eye Thomas, “hit ammer shame datter passel er gemman 
kaint git tergevver ter have er liT ’bate dout dar is some- 
body ter try ter bruk hit up. Yer gemman oughter be 
ershamer yerse’f. Who de nex’ mans wot gwineter ’cuss 
dis queshun?” 

“Mister Cha’rman, ’cordin’ ter wotter hyeer um say, 
kaser doan drinks nuffln’ but licker, an’ dunno ’bout 
bear, yer gwineter sho git fooled ef yer drinks dis ni-bear. 
Dey tell me dat yer kin git drunk on ni-bear atter yer 
teks two drinks er hit. Evvy timer bese at de city hall 
cote er hyeers dem mens wot git drunk tell de jedge dat 
dey doan drink nuffln’ but ni-bear. Evvyt’ing ni-bear. 
Ni-bear dun dis an’ ni-bear dun dat. Now’n den some 
po’ creetur wot aint right in he haid he say he git some 
licker fum Jacksons’-ville, but mos’ all dem wotter hyeer 
talk up dar dey say hit ni-bear dat mekkum drunk.” This 
was from a man in the corner. 

“Still yer ainter tellin’ wot mek yer drunk quickist,” 
said the chairman. 

“Mister Cha’rman,” said Buckeye Bill, “er got de price, 


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anner axes yer all dis : Dey izzer heap mo’ in dis quesh- 
un dan yer all is er lookin’ at. Ef de cha’rman will sen’ 
out an’ gitter botler licker anner lotter bear, mebbe we 
kin git some er dese yer gemman in de room ter drink 
some uvvit an’ den we kin tell w’ich mek de drunk come 
de quickist. Is dar anybody in de house wot’ll drink 
some bear an’ some wot’ll drink some licker?” 

There were a dozen hands to go up. 

“Dat de way ter settle dis queshun, an’ yer alls jiss 
wait fur me teller comes back. Er gwine atter de stuff,” 
and Buckeye Bill darted out of the room to return soon 
with a quart bottle of liquor and a sack full of bottled 
beer. 

‘‘Some uv yer gotter drinkt de beer, an’ some uv yer 
gotter drink de licker. Who gwineter drinkt de bear?” 

There was a general response, some saying they would 
take the beer and some the whisky. Haslit Pete, how- 
ever, yelled out from his corner, “gimme some er bofe, 
an’ do hit quick.” 

“Fo’ yer all tekker drink,” said the chairman, “er 
wants ter say datter didn’t comes hyere ter ack ez chair- 
man uvver blin’ tiger, er comes hyere ter ack ez cha’rman 
uvver ’batin’ s’iety, an’ efyer alls gwineter do disser way, 
an’ me er preacher er de gospil, lemme git out’n hyere. 
Er will tekker seat in de nex’ room wid Sister Crawford, 
and Mister Buckeye, fo yer dish out dat pizen er wants 
ter see yer.” 

Buckeye and the preacher repaired to the adjoining 
room for a few minutes. Then Buckeye returned to the 
debating room with the bottle of liquor in his hand, and 
with a wink said : “Boys, yer needn’t be skeerd er dis 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 111 

stuff, kase de preacher drinkt mouty nigh ha’f de bottle 
fo he tek hit down fum he mout’.” 

The whisky and the beer passed around, but each got 
so little that the test was a poor one. The crowd got 
jolly and forgot all about the debate. It was not long 
before there was a banging on the middle door. It was 
opened, and there was the Rev. Wall-Eye Thomas, pastor 
of the Yamacraw Meffodis’ Chu’ch, about as drunk as a 
man can well get. He staggered into the room, and as 
well as he could, said: 

“De mans dat say licker doan mek yer drunk de fusstes 
dan ni-bear, izzer doggone lie, anner kin wup him sho’s 
mer name Thomas.” 

Then the meeting broke up. 

A TYBEE TRICK. 

Whispering Annie met Slowfoot Sal in Sympathy Al- 
ley, over in Tybee, and had a talk, a long confidential 
talk. 

“Dese sho is de wusses times er evvy seed in all mer 
bawn days. De town daid, jiss plain daid, dat wot hit is. 
Effer had nuff money er sho would move fum dis town,” 
said Annie in that sonorous whisper of hers. 

“Fum wot deys tell me dis town ain no wuss off dan 
any uvver town. Fum wot deys tell me, de whole wul 
jiss de same way. Alls er waitin fur is time ter go ter 
Fort Valley an’ pick peaches. Effer kin jiss keep mer 
soul an’ body tergevver ’long nuff fur dat, er is sho sat- 
terfied, but hit look lak hitter long timer cornin’. Iz yer 
gotter nuff ter gitter botler bear, Annie?” 


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“Er ain gotten nuff ter buyed er botler water, much 
less bear. Me’n you gotter sho gotter mekker rise. Wot 
yer say ter er enter-tain-ment, same ez dem chu’ch folks- 
es guv’? De chu’ch doan need money wussun us, dooz 
dey ?” 

“Now yer talkin’ sense. Er seed dat Jack Jackson er 
Jacksons-villes in town, an’ spose we mek him de boss 
er de enter-tain-ment. He -de pres’dent. Hit mek him 
swell up lakker tukky gobler ter mek him pres’dent,” 
whispered Annie. 

| They found Jackson, who had taken about three drinks, 
and was ripe for anything, from a burglary to bossing 
an entertainment. He accepted the high and responsible 
position with a grin. He told them to go on and get the 
room and he would send up the cream and cake and 
things. They rented the front room of Minerva’s house 
in Sympathy Alley, and norated it around that the enter- 
tainment would be given, and that it was to be first-class 
in every particular. Banjo Bill was engaged to furnish 
the music, and Sal printed with her own hand the notice : 

“Nickl klub at Nervy harris house cimthy ally ternite 
price ten cens come one come all an git yer money wuff 
jack jaksun presden Slowfut sal an gentul annie.” 

The room was crowded. Two dollars had been taken 
in at the door and the ice cream and cake and soft drinks 
yet to be sold. Things looked prosperous. Jack had kept 
his word and sent all the things to the house, but failed 
to put in an appearance so far. 

“Stop dat moosic.” It came as a thunderclap in a 
clear sky. The perspiring dancers stopped in the midst 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


113 


of the revelry. The command had been shouted in such 
a way as to attract attention. Slowfoot Sal extricated 
herself from Harelip Pete’s grasp and demanded: 

“Wot guy who tol’ dat music ter stop?” 

“Hit me, de pastor er yer chu’ch, dat who. Er is sho 
sprised ter seed memmers er mer corngergashun shookin 
dey laigs ter dat ungawdly banjer. An’ dey tells me 
dat hit in de namer de chu’ch. Er sho feel mer soul 
mortify an’ de flesh quiver ter de bone.” The Rev. 
Wall-Eye Thomas was angered. So was Sal. 

“Look hyere, Mister Thomas, yer kin boss dat hog 
pen uvver chu’ch over yanner in Yamacraw, but dis 
hyere er nickel club in Tybee, an’ ef yer doan tek yer- 
se’f out’n hyere inner pa’r minnits wese sho gwineter 
skuse yer.” 

These were several good sisters of his congregation 
at the affair, and they crowded around the pastor to pac- 
ify him, while Sal was looking around for something 
to hit him with. About this time Jackson sailed into 
the room, and on being told the cause of the disturbance, 
he gathered the pastor by the scruff of the neck and sent 
him out of the door. 

“Er jiss got dis much ter say ter de sisters: Er dun 
th’owed de ol’ ram out’n de do’ fur buttin’ in whar he 
ain got no bisniss, an’ ef any de flocker lam’s too dog- 
gone good ter shekker foots at dis shindig, deys better 
foller dey leader! Disser nickel club, an’ hit ain’ no 
Chusedy night prar meetin’. Say, yer yallerhammer 
banjer mans, strack upper chune, de ones wot de ol’ cow 
die uv, an’ boys git yer podners,” and Jackson gathered 


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Sal around her ample waist and on went the dance till 
a late hour. 

“Whar Annie?” inquired Sal during a lull. 

“Who, W’isprin’ Annie? She is dun gone long timer 
go,” said one of the girls. 

“Ef dat doan beat de debbul an’ Tom Walker! Er 
mouter knowed hit. Dat oomans got alls de money, an’ 
lit out ! She gwineter spin all dat money an’ go right 
ter de stockade. Hitter shame de way dat oomans ack !” 

And such was the case. Annie had gotten hold of the 
proceeds and vanished, leaving Jackson, who had fur- 
nished the funds, to believe that Sal got her share, or 
that she did not. And he resolved to watch and see if 
Sal didn’t meet Annie somewhere to divide. 


POOR EMMA. 

Emma Davis, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, was tired. 
She had been trotting over town all day delivering arti- 
cles of feminine wear to be worn on Sunday, and when 
Saturday night came she was fagged out. Her mother 
had prepared supper for her, but she was too tired to eat 
it and threw herself down in a chair and rested. 

There was a rap at the door, and her mother being 
busy in the back room, Emma opened the door to find 
Jack Jackson of Jacksonville, with his hat uplifted. 

“Goo devenin’, Miss Davis, er ain’t seed yer inner 
coon’s age. How yer mar?” 

“Well, er do declar’, effit ain’ Mister Jackson! Come 
right in, Mister Jackson. Mar jiss step in de dining 



THE COURTIN’ OF EMMA DAVIS. 


115 


t 



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room fur er minnit. Yer sho haster skuse de looks er 
de room. Hit Saddy night, yer knows. Whar yer ben 
alls dis time, Mister Jackson?” 

“Jiss benner pirootin’ roun’, Miss Davis, fuss one place, 
den ernuvver.” 

“Er sight er yer is sho good fur de so’ eyes. How 
yer mekkin’ out, Mister Jackson?” 

“Er izzer mekkin’ money han’ over fiss. De wul is 
sho good ter me, anner ain’ got no kick cornin’. Wot 
yer doin’ now, Miss Davis, totin’ umpire gowns yit?” 

“Same ol’ job, Mister Jackson. Er is jist ez ti’ed ez- 
zer kin be ter-night totin’ dresses an’ hats fur de w’ite 
ladies. Look lak de w’ite ladies gittin’ mo’ hats’n things 
dan deys evvy did. Hit sho good ter have money.” 
Emma sighed. 

“Dat jiss wot mek me say wotter gwineter say, Miss 
Emma. Er got money ter bu’n, but ’tain’ mekkin’ me 
feel good.” 

“Lor’, Mister Jackson, how come yer say dat! Money 
git mos’ anyt’ing in dis wul. Effer had money — but 
pshaw, wotter want er say dat fur? Er ain’ got nuffin’ 
an’ hit look mouty lak er ain’ter gwineter git nuffin’. Hit 
look lak er jiss gotter keep onner totin’ dem frocks and 
dem hats, an’ cornin’ home Saddy night mouty nigh daid, 
er is so ti’ed.” 

“How dat sot on yer finner, Emma?” Jack takes what 
appears to be a diamond ring from his pocket and tries it 
on her finger. 

“Dat ain' no di’mon’, Jack, is it? Hit sho do fit! Er 
sho would feel good effer hadder ring lak dat.” Emma 
sighs again. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


117 


“All yer gotter do is ter say yer wants dat ring, an' 
hit stay on dat tinner, an’ dat ain’t all. Ef yer bese mer 
jularky, an’ let one er dese yer Meffodis preachers say 
yer Miz Jackson, yer kin git up in de mawnin’ an’ yer 
kin say ter dat w’ite oomans yer benner totin’ frocks fur 
dat yer dun got marrit now, an’ she kin git somebody 
else yer tote dem frocks.” 

“Yer oughtn’t ter fool me datter way, Jack. Yer is 
too gooder mans ter fool er lady datter way.” 

“Stidder yer totin’ dem frocks an’ dem hats ter uvver 
peoples, some gal be totin’ dem ter Miz Jackson.” 

“Quit yer kiddin’, Jack.” 

“Yer git yer one er dese umpire gowns, two uvvum, 
ez many ez yer wants.” 

“Yer oughter be ershamer yerse’f, Jack.” 

“An’ effer cotch yer doin’ any wuk ’cep’n ter eat yer 
beefsteak an’ ice cream, er dunno wotter do wid yer.” 

“Yer sho do love ter tease.” 

“Alls yer gotter do is ter tell de cook wot yer want 
fur dinner, an’ dar hit is on de table waitin’ fur yer.” 

“Hush yer mout’, Jack, yer sho oughter be er shamer 
yerse’f.” 

“An’ w’en yer wants ter go down town, alls yer gotter 
do is ter ax fur er twenty, errer fifty, doan mek no dif- 
funce w’ich, an’ dar hit is.” 

“Wot yer wants me ter say, Jack?” 

“Alls yer gotter say is dat yer be Miz Jackson, an’ 
dat settle de bisniss. Wot yer gwineter say, honey?” 

“Fotch erlong de preacher, Jack. Er is sho happy 
jiss dis one time.” 

Then followed a short season of blissful silence. 


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“Emma Davis! Emma Davis! Wake up dar, yer 
sleepy-haid gal, an’ eat dat supper, er hit go right back 
ter de pantry. Nevvy seed sicher sleepy-haid gal sence 
er ben bawn !” 

“Is Jack gone, mar?” 

“Jack ! Yer musser benner dreemin’, gal, dar ain’ 
ben no Jack ter dis house. Eat dem vittles, er tell yer.” 

Poor Emma! 


WHAT FOOLS THESE HUSBANDS BE. 

“Wot de namer de Lawd de matter wid dat chile, 
Mernervy? Tain dun nuffin but cry all night.” 

Josh lied about it, for he had been snoring away from 
the time he struck the bed at 8 o’clock until he woke up 
about daybreak, and then he made the observation. 

“Dat de trufe, hit benner cryin’ all night, but you ain 
hyeerd hit. Yer benner sawin’ dem godes anner runnin’ 
er sawmill fum de time yer hit de baid tell now, dat wot 
yer benner doin, an’ me er sottin up anner doin wotter 
kin fur de young un. Nice timer night fur yer ter cum- 
mer axin me wot ail de chile, hit sho is !” 

“How come yer didn’t woke me up ? Dat alls yer has- 
ter do. Stidder dat, yer sot up dar an’ messer roun’, 
an’ pout, an’ hang out yer tongue, an’ jiss lemme sleep 
on, an’ dar de young un er cryin ter beat de ban. W’en 
er oomans is means she sho mean all over, dat wot she 
is. How come er dunno de chile sick ef yer doan tell 
me? Tell me dat. Er ain no mine reader.” 

“Didn’t er tol’ yer de chile ailin fo yer shuck dem 


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119 


clo’es? Didn’t er tol’ yer de chile ailin? Didn’t er tol’ 
yer de chile ain ben well all day? Cose er did. Sides 
dat, yer seed de chile wuz puny.” 

All the time Minerva was talking she was rocking to 
and fro in a rocking chair, the child crying at intervals. 
Minerva had told Josh some truths, but he would have 
died before acknowledging them. In the meantime he 
was lying in bed, never offering to lend any assistance. 

“De po’ liT thing musser C9tch col’ some way,” he 
ventured. 

“Col’ nuffn’! Spec hit got de small pox. Dey tell 
me dat hit evvywhar now,” said Mernervy, with devil- 
ment in her eye. 

“Is dar any breakin out on hit?” anxiously inquired 
Josh. 

“Breakin out! Breakin out! Is yer took de trouble 
ter look unner hit clo’es? Hit bruk out all over, ef dat 
wot yer talkin’ ’bout.” 

“Yer kin all bruk out fur measels. Dat ain no sign er 
small pox. Yer gotter haves fever.” 

“Fever! Fever! De po’ li’F thing jisser bu’nin up 
wid fever. Jiss feeler hits laigs. Deys so hot right now 
dey scotch mer han. Butter tell yer right now, Josh 
Jackson, yer ainter gwineter leave dis house wid me in- 
nit ber mer lone se’f anner red flannel flag stickin out de 
front do’. Yer needn’t be er countin on leavin me all 
ber merse’f. Ef yer goes er sho goes wid yer.” 

Josh was doing some thinking. Only the week before 
the inspectors had found a case of small pox in the alley 
near by, and perhaps Minerva was right. The child 
might have small pox, and if it did, he would be kept 


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at home for several weeks. He thought of a thousand 
things he had to do, and which he couldn’t do if he was 
kept at home. If he could only get out of the house be- 
fore the case was discovered. That was all he wanted 
in this world now. He began to make terms. 

“Yer knows er is de one wot haster mek de money 
ter buyed de meat’n braid fur dis fambly. Effer haster 
stay hyere, hower gwineter mek de money ter buyed de 
meat’n braid?” 

“Ner yer mine bout de meat’n braid part uwit. De 
city gi’ us all de meat’n braid we kin eat. Er dun foun 
dat out.” 

After a long silence on his part, but with a few cries 
from the fretting child: 

“Er jisser bleeged ter be down town ter-morrer. Er 
got dat fifteen dollars datter sol’ dat no count mule fur, 
anner gwineter leave yer five uv dat ter keep house on, 
ef yer lemme go fo dem spectors comes.” 

“How yer spec me ter live on five dollars an’ buyed de 
med’cin? Yer haster haves er heaper med’cin w’en 
yer git de small pox,” said Minerva, who saw her 
chance. 

Josh fairly groaned. But he studied the situation. 
He would be cooped up for thirty days or more, and 
there was no pleasure for him. He decided to make an- 
other attempt. 

“Er jiss bleege ter have some money, anner tell yer 
wotter dooz. Er gi’ yer sebbun dollars.” 

“Hit ten dollars er yer stay right hyere in dis house 
tell deys tek de red flag down. Yer hyeers me.” 

Josh slowly arises and puts on his clothes. Slowly 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


121 


and silently he pulls out his wallet and counts out ten 
dollars and hands it to Minerva. Then he starts for the 
door. 

“Ain yer gwineter kiss de baby goo’bye?” 

“Doggone de baby,” and the door slammed. Minerva 
gave the baby some nourishment and laid it down on 
the bed to sleep. It was daylight now, and as she went 
about getting her breakfast she would first sing and 
then laugh. 

“De Lawd doan mekker bigger fool danner mans. Er 
sho git me one er dem sossidge-skin frocks effer dies.” 

A FIRST CLASS FUNERAL. 

Down at the union depot yesterday the hackmen, wait- 
ing for the trains to arrive, gathered about and chatted. 
They talked about everybody and everything with reck- 
less abandon. Among the number was Old Bill, who 
had been driving in Macon for thirty years or more, 
and for this reason was more or less respected by the 
others. He was silent yesterday, not taking much part 
in the idle gossip, and on being asked what was ailing 
him, he said: 

“W’en yer dreams erbout er funeul, wot dat de sign 
uv?” 

“Hit de sign dat yer gwineter git marrit,” said one, 
and loud guffaws followed, for Bill was nearly seventy 
years old. 

“Tell de dream, Bill,” said several in chorus. 

“Er dream er wuz daid. Dar er wuz, in de baid, anner 
kaint talk, kaint move, butter see jiss lakker always seed. 


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Er seed de w’ite folks come in de house, anner hyeer um [ 
talk jiss lakker always hyeer. Dey say, Oh Bill er mouty 
good nigger. He de ol’est nigger wot driv er hack. He 
driv de hack w’enner git marrit. Nuvver one say, he rid 
me ter mer par funeul. Nuvver one say, he driv me 
home many er night w’enner kaint git home on mer 
laigs. An’ deys keep dat up tell one mans say, less give 
Ol’ Bill de swellist funeul datter mans evvy did have! 
Dey alls say, wese wid yer. 

“All de time er wuzzer layin dar in de baid sho daid. 
Er sho git dat swell funeul. Evvy mans in town fotchi 
he autobeel. Stidder kerridges an’ hacks, dey had dese 
autobeels. All you niggers sottin up dar in dem auto- 
beels, smokin dese ten-cent seegyars widder gol’ ban on 
um. In front er de huss whar er wuz dar wuzzer brass 
ban playin sweet chunes. Backer de huss wuzzer cou- 
pler drays fuller flowers. Den come de ballbearers in 
one er dese Texas kebs anner smokin some mo’ er dem 
ten-cent seegyars. Den comes de preacher wot gwine- 
ter preach de sarmon, an’ he have er whole autobeel ter 
hese’f, an’ he smokin er seegyar, too. 

“Den comes de peoples wot go ter de funeul. Dey all: 
dress up, an’ sottin in dem autobeels er smokin er demi 
ten-cent seegyars. Alls de wimmen folkses w’arrin dem 
big hats, an’ dem umpire gowns, an dem eel-skin frocks, 
an’ look lak dey gwineter er Sundy school picnic. 

“Den las’ uv all dar wuz ol’ Beck pullin mer ol’ hack. 
De hack an’ de hoss wuz jiss kivverd wid flowers, an 1 
Beck hadder long piecer black ribbin tied roun her nek, 
an’ she sho look lak she knowed er wuz daid, an’ she aid 
nevvy gwineter seed me any mo\ 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


123 


“De percesshun fo mile long. Hit retch fum de cim- 
terterry ter Sout’ Macon. An’ all de steam w’issles 
blow, an’ all de chu’ch bells ring, an’ dese yer hawns wot 
deys have on de autobeels dey blow, an’ de ban’ play de 
slowist moosic hit kin play. 

“Wen we gits ter de cimmerterry, de percesshun tu’n 
in de big gate an’ go down ter de grave. De grave all 
brick up an’ fuller mo’ flowers. De ballbearers dey pull 
de coffin out’n de huss, an’ dey lemme down in de grave, 
an’ de ban’ hit play some mo’ dat sof ’ moosic. De preach- 
er he say er wuz de bestist mans wot evvy lives. He tell 
wotter dun dats good w’enner wuz livin. He tell er 
whole heaper t’ings datter didn’t nevvy hyeer bout befo. 
He say dat hyere wuz one mans dat nevvy horn nobody, 
datter nevvy cheat no mans, datter guv alls er made ter 
de po’n needy, datter sot up wid de sick, an’ datter tuck 
kyeer er de widder an’ de awphins. He say dat he jiss 
know er gone ter hebbun, an’ datter peepin right now on 
dis weekid wul. He say er izzer ainjil now. 

“An’ dar er wuz layin dar in mer coffin lissnin at dat 
mans tell all dem lies, an’ dar er wuz kaint liffer om 
ter hit him! 

“Den dey sings er song bout siddern de lilies, anner seed 
de mans wot stay ter de cimmerterry an’ bury folkes tek 
upper spader dirt an’ drap hit on de coffin. Dat w’enner 
wake up. Hit sho wuzzer fuss-class funeul.” 

“Well!” exclaimed several, as a relief. 

“Yer gwineter do mouty well ef one er dese scatrin 
cyarts er de boder heff doan tek yer down ter de cream- 
ery whar dey bu’n up de daid cows,” said an unfeeling 
hackman. 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


TAKING THE CENSUS. 

The Tybee Sunshine Club met as usual yesterday. It 
is the habit of the negro brickyard hands and the rail- 
road laborers to meet on the street in Tybee every Sun- 
day morning and discuss what they hear their bosses talk: 
about during the week. It is a characteristic of the ne- 
gro to get his news either mixed or distorted. On this 
occasion it seems that Shorty Sam had heard his bossj 
say that there was a possibility of the government em- 
ploying negro census enumerators, and this formed one 
of the subjects discussed. 

“De guv’ment sho rickerlic dat all de niggers ain gone 
ter Lobelia. De nigger gwineter git sump’n fum de 
guvverment at lass,” said Sam. 

“Wot dat? de guv’ment gi’ de nigger forty acre anner 
mule one time. Wot deys gwineter gi’ de nigger dis 
time?” asked old Simon. 

“Er hyeerd de boss mans sayed dat dey is gwineter 
gi’ de niggers de job er tekkin de senses way fum de 
w’ite peoples,” said Sam. 

“Wot de namer dat licker yer git dis mawnin, Sam? 
Hit muss be some er dis squl bran, de kine dat w'en yer 
drinkt hit yer kin blow yer breff upper tree an’ de squl 
fall down daid.” 

“Er ain totch er drap dis livin day. Sho nuff, dat 
wotter hyeerd de boss mans sayed. He say dey is : 
gwineter tell how many peoples deys is sence deys had 
deys senses tekker way fum um bout ten yer ergo. An’ 
he say de niggers gotter do hit.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


125 


“Sump’n wrong bout dat, Sam. Dis yer squl branner 
bline tiger licker mout tek deys senses way, but yer 
knowed no nigger ain gwineter dooz hit cep’n de w’ite 
man sleep. How de namer Gawd yer gwineter tek de 
w’ite man’s senses way fum him, no how? Yer sho 
muss be gwine bughouse.” 

“Naw er ain, neever. Dat wotter hyeerd de mans 
sayed. He wuz talkin ter er nuvver w’ite mans. Er 
i sho hyeer him say hit.” 

“Well, hyere one nigger dat doan wants dat job.” 

“Hit de trufe, dat wotter tol’ yer. Hyere come Jim 
wot kin read’n write. Less ax him ef he hyeerd anyt’ing 
bout hit.” 

Jim prided himself on being able to read and write, 
and nothing tickled his vanity so much as to be asked 
for information. 

“Hit wot deys calls de noomeratters er de senses, dat 
wot hit is,” said Jim; “evvy ten year de guv’ment sont 
menses all thoo de wul ter fine out how many menses 
and wimmenses an’ boys and gals an’ chilluns er all kine, 
how ol’ yer is, whar yer bawnded, how long yer ben 
hyere, wot chu’ch yer b’long ter, is yer w’ite folkses er 
niggers, is yer marrit, an’ who yer ol’ oomans an’ whar 
she come fum, is yer got any zeaze, an’ ef yer par er 
| mar die wid hit, is yer onhealthy, an’ ef yer dies whar 
yer wants ter be buried, how much yer got in de bank, 
an’ ef yer ain got any money wot yer got at home, is 
yer rentin er dooz yer house b’long ter yer, ef yer evvy 
had de small pox, an’ ef yer ain had de small pox w’en 
wuz yer vaxnated, and wuz yer vaxnated on de om er 
on de laig, an’ how many cows’n hogs yer got, an’ hosses. 


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an’ who yer wukkin fur an wot yer gitter day, an’ ef yer 
go ter chu’ch on Sunday an’ how much yer put in de 
sasser, and did yer evvy teller lie an’ wot fur, anner ! 
whole heaper quesshuns lak dat. Dat wot de noomerat- 
ters dooz, and de guv’ment pay yer fo dollars er day an’ 1 
spences.” 

“Fur de lan sake! An’ dat de job de guv’ment gwine- 
ter gi’ de niggers?” said Sam. 

“Yer ax me wot de mans wot tek de senses gotter | 
dooz, anner tol’ yer. Yer ain bleege ter tek de job. 
De guv’ment ain gwine runnin atter yer ter tek hit. De 
nigger alls de time talkin bout de guv’ment ain gi’in um 
no job, an’ now w’en deys gi’ yer er job yer kick.” 

“Yeh, but dat ain no job fur er nigger. Fuss time er 
nigger go ax one er dese w’ite mans ef he evvy teller lie 
an’ wot fur, dat nigger ainter gwineter live ter draw 
dat fo dollars er day. Is dis some er Mister Taf’s do- 
ins? Ef hit is, he ain gots much sense as dat Mister 
Teddy wot used ter be pres’dent. Wot mekkim doan gi’ 
de nigger er 'job whar no w’ite mans gwineter knock de 
stuffin out’n him time he ax de fuss quesshun ? Ook-er ! 
dis nigger gwineter stay down ter de brickyod.” 

“Wot deys wants ter tek de senses fur, Jim?” 

“Soze deys knowed how many peoples in de wul. 
Hows deys gwineter foun dat out cep’n deys tek de 
senses? How many peoples in Macon?” 

“Er spec dey is mouty nigh er thousan peoples in Ma- 
con, cep’n w’en de succus come, an’ den dar muss be er 
milyun, mo’n dat, er reckin.” 

“How come deys ain mo’n er thousan peoples in Ma- 
con? Deys dat many peoples right hyere in Tybee, am 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


12 ? 


ner ain sayin nuffin bout Yamacraw, an’ up dar on Pleas- 
ant Hill, an’ Eas Macon. Spec deys evvy bit’n grain 
mouty nigh two thousan.” This was Pete’s estimate. 

“Er hyeerd de boss mans say dat dey wuz mouty nigh 
sebenty-fi’ thousand peoples in Macon/’ said Henry. 

“Fur de lan sake, mans! Whar all dem peoples? He 
muss count dem wot lives in Vinesvilles an’ Succun 
! Street. Yer boss mans muss be bughouse. Dar ain 
mo’n dat many people in de whole stater Georgy. W’en 
dem niggers gwineter stotter wuk, Jim?” 

“Atter Chrismus, dat wot deys tell me.” 

“Hit better be atter Chrismus. Ef dem niggers go 
messin roun de w’ite folks axin all de fool quesshuns fo 
Chrismus, dar ainter gwineter be many er us niggers 
dat gwineter git any Chrismus! Yer heerd wotter tol’ 
yer.” 

There was a call for dinner from afar off, and the 
meeting of the Tybee Sunshine Club was at an end for 
the day. 


THE HOOK WORM. 

These fallish days that announce the approach of Sep- 
tember produce a lazy feeling, and the draymen eating 
their dinner remarked it. They had but little hauling to 
do during the morning, and yet they felt as tired as if 
they had been kept busy. This is what they discussed 
as they ate their dinner. 

“Mer liT gal stracker snag last night,” said Bill. 

“Did she haves on dat Mary Jane gown er hyeerd yer 
talkin bout ?” 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Naw, dat ain de kiner snag er is talkin bout. She 
ben reedin de paper an’ she say de doctors kiner oneasy « 
bout so much hook-wum in de country. She sayes she 
reed whar de doctors skyeerd hit gwineter be evvywhar. 
Er ax her wot de hook-wum, and she sayes she dunno. 
Hit sump’n noo. She look in de dixnerry an de sipeter 
an’ taint ain dair, ef hit is she kaint fine hit. Dat de 
kiner snag er is talkin bout.” 

“Mer goodniss, mans, doan yer knowed wotter hook-, 
wum is ? Evvybody ought ter knowed wotter hook-wum 
is. Dat easy.” 

“Longs yer so smot, tell wotter hook-wum is. Trouble 
wid yer is yer knows too much fur er little town lak 
Macon. Whar yer blong is Noo Yawk. Yer mekker 
good slot mersheen. Yer got yer mout op’n all de time, 
an w’enner mans wants ter knowed wot time de fo clock 
train dun come in he drap one er dese noo pennies in 
hit an yer cough up dat hit leave at fo clock. Er ain got 
no penny in change ter-day, but ef yer kin creddic me 
tell ter-morrer dis time, er drap one in yer mout. Wotter 
hook-wum ?” 

“Er hook-wum wot yer put on er hook w’en yer go 
fishin, dat wot hit is. Any ijjit knowed dat.” 

“Naw taint neever. Wot dem doctors skyeerder dem 
fur, ef deys de kiner wums?” 

“Doctors skyeerder any kiner wum. Wot mekkum gi’ 
de chillun medcin fur fums, ef deys ain skyeerder um?” 

“Mer liT gal sayes hit ain de kiner wums wot chillun 
haves. Hit er noo kiner wum. Pete, ax dat w’ite mans 
comin long wot er hook-wum is.” 

Pete stops a white man and gets some information. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 129 

The hook-worm produces a feeling of languor, a laziness, 
an inertia. 

“Wot de w’ite mans say hit wuz, Pete?” 

“He say hit mek yer lazy ter miss yer. He say hit 
mek yer sick, an’ yer doan feel lak doin nuffin.” 

“Wotter tell yer? Er tol’ yer taint de kiner wum yer 
put on er hook w’en yer gwine fishin. Wot else he say, 
Pete?” 

“Dat evvyt’ing he say. Dat de fuss timer knowed hit 
tekker wum ter mek yer lazy. Er knows some peoples 
dat had de hook-wum sence deys ben bawnded. Dunno 
but wotter swallowed one er dem wums merse’f some 
timer nuvver. Er sho is ben lazy dis day. Er doan feel 
lak movin’ out’n mer tracks. Reckin dat w’ite mans ain 
foolin us?” 

“Cose- de w’ite mans ain foolin yer. Ainter tell yer 
mer li’l’ gal reed ter me bout dat wum? Only she doan 
knows wot hit is. Er sho tell her w’enner gits home ter 
supper. Er jiss knows dat gal ben feelin bad all day 
kase she kaint fine hit in de sipeter.” 

“Wot de sipeter, Bill?” 

“Hit some er dem big books wot mer li’l’ gal pay 
dollar er mont’ fur an’ hit tell yer all bout wot yer wants 
ter know. She all de timer lookin in dat sipeter ter larn 
sump’n, but dem peoples wot got hit up musser not 
knowed anyt’ing bout de hook-wum, kase deys sho lef 
hit out.” 

“Spec hit one er dem noo doins wot come hyere wid 
probashun. Hit look lak ter me dat sence probashun come 
dar ain nufhn but wot noo. Who evvy hyeerd bout dis 
hook-wum fo licker went out’n succulashun? Tell me 


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dat. Yer ax yer HT gal ef deys anyt’ing in dat sipeter 
bout de bline tiger. Ax her ef deys anyt’ing bout ni-bear. 
Ax her ef deys anyt’ing bout two dollar tax fur er dog. 
Ax her bout dis perlagger, an’ dis flammertory talk bout 
wimmenses. Dar izzer heaper dese noo-fangle doins 
dat git here atter probashun comes.” 

“Wot de doctor sayes good fur dis hook-wum?” 

“Dunno wot he say. Er ain got no two dollars ter 
th’ow way axin er doctor bout wot good fur hook-wum. 
Ef taint er cotchin zease, taint gwineter bovver me. Hit 
dem cotchin zeases wot git me kiner skyeerd.” 

Over on the far corner stood a man calling for a 
dray to move his household effects, and there was a 
scramble that put an end to the discussion. 

THE EDUCATED DAUGHTER. 

Rebecca had been off to college somewhere, and was 
back home to start out on her life’s career. Bill Harris, 
her father, was a contractor, and his main business was 
to mend fences, patch roofs, swing gates, and do such 
jobs as might come to hand. Lucinda, his wife, took in 
washing and ironing, and Bill, through the pleadings 
of Lucinda, spent about all he made on the education 
of Rebecca, leaving what Lucinda made by way of wash- 
ing to run the household. Lucinda built high hopes on 
Rebecca. She was of the opinion that Rebecca was the 
smartest girl in town, and the mother longed for the day 
when her daughter would outshine, in education, man- 
ners, and style any other girl in Macon. 

So Rebecca came home, and after the novelty of be- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


131 


ing once more on the ground her infant feet had trod 
had worn off, she began to compare the humble sur- 
roundings with what she had been accustomed to at col- 
lege. She began to complain of the plain fare, then at 
the rough manners of the father, and then at the fact 
that her mother was obliged to bend over the tub. Lu- 
cinda was so happy over Rebecca’s accomplishments and 
her superiority over the other girls in Tybee, that if Re- 
becca had whipped her it would have been all right, but 
Bill was getting tired of it. It was plain that sooner 
or later there was going to be trouble. The outbreak 
came at the breakfast table. 

“Par, I wish you wouldn’t eat those hominy with your 
knife, it is not at all correct form.” 

“Yer par pay fur dese grits wid he own money, anner 
kin eat em widder knifer fawk errer spoon effer wants 
ter,” said Bill with a decided snap. 

“I was just calling your attention to it,” said Re- 
becca. 

“Now, honey, dat all she dun, she jiss call yer tenshun 
ter hit, not dat she mean any horn ber hit,” came from 
Lucinda in a soft tone. 

“Kimmin ter er mouty fine pass w’en yer par gotter eat 
grits widder fawk, anner benner eatin’ grits widder knife 
evvy sence er ben bawn. An’ Ise gwineter tell yer 
sump’n else, I is gittin’ ti’ed er yer sottin’ up in de pyarlor 
er jigglin’ on dat orgin anner squallin’ lak yer had de 
cramp colic, an’ dar yer mar out dar in de yod er brekkin 
her back er washin’ uv dem clo’es, an’ me er footin’ 
roun’ town er huntin’ fur wuk.” The old man was 
shoveling in the hominy with his knife as he said this. 


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“I am unaccustomed to such bursts of temper where I 
have been, and if you will excuse me I will retire to my 
room,” said Rebecca with some show of feeling. 

“Dar now, honey, yer hu’t Becky’s feelin’s, po’ gal. 
Yer gotter riccolic dat Becky is ben ter college, honey. 
Tol’ yer she didn’t mean no horn ber wot she sayed.” 
This from Lucinda. 

“An’ Ise gwine ter hu’t sump’n else ’sides her feelin’s 
widder strop ef she doan look out. Atter er dun th’owed 
erway all dat money on dat gal ter gitter eddicashun an’ 
hyere she come ter tell her par dat hit haint krec’ ter eat 
grits widder knife ! But dat de way wid de gals dese 
days. De mo’ yer spin’ on ’em de mo’ dey wants yer 
to spin’, an’ den dey tu’n roun’ an’ be er shamer dey 
par. Ise gwine out now ter fix dat fence fur Mister Holt, 
an’ yer kin jiss tell Miss Becky dat ef she spec ter stay 
in dis house she sho gotter shuck dem duds she benner 
w’arrin’ an’ he’p her mar wash’n i’on,” and with that Bill 
began putting on his old coat. But the idea of Rebecca 
bending over the wash-tub was too abhorrent to Lucinda. 
She got up quickly and confronted Bill with her arms 
akimbo. 

“Look hyere, Bill Harris, dat mer chile, an’ she doan 
wash no clo’es, I tell yer dat right dis minnit. Ef dar is 
gwineter be any stroppin’ in dis house Bill Harris gwine- 
ter git hit. Yer hyeer dat.” 

“Git out’n mer way, oomans, yer izzer tromp’n on 
totchy ground’ dis mawnin. Jisses sho’s yer bawn, effer 
kin home ter dinner an’ dat gal ainter wukkin fti soap 
suds in de kitchin, dar izzer gwineter be some stroppin’. 
Git out’n de way, er tell yer.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


133 


That was when Lucinda hit him with a plate, the 
first thing she could lay her hands on. Bill tried to grab 
her, but Lucinda had her mad up, and the next thing she 
could get her hands on was the coffee pot, and over his 
head came the coffee. The people next door heard the 
fuss and told the police. Both were in court yesterday 
and the tale was told. Lucinda gave her side, and it 
looked bad for Bill. Then he said : 

“Jedge, hit all mer fault. Er is gwine on sebbenty- 
two year of now, anner benner livin’ wid Lucindy hyere 
fur nigh on forty year, an’ dis de fustes’ time wese had- 
der cross wud. Spec mer liver out’n awder, anner wuz- 
zent feelin’ lakker oughter. Ef yer skuse us dis time, 
Jedge, er sho eat mer grits widder fawk atter dis.” 

It now all depends on Bill discarding the knife when 
he eats hominy. 

AN ENOCH ARDEN CASE. 

Henry Brown went wrong three or four years ago, and 
left Macon under escort for a term of several years in 
some coal mine in North Georgia. At intervals he heard 
from Susan, his wife, and she always sent her love, and 
that of Henry, Jr., and hoped that the time would pass 
quickly away so that the little family would be reunited. 
The intervals grew wider apart, and finally ceased alto- 
gether. 

About a year ago, Susan got hold of the news in some 
way that Henry was killed by an avalanche of coal fall- 
ing on him, and it was not long after that she married 
Berry Summerlin. 


134 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Sunday night last there was a rap at the door of the 
little house Henry had built and paid for. 

“Who dat?” came from within, 

The sound of a man’s voice in his own house did not 
have a pleasant note in it to Henry, and he took a mo- 
ment to think. Then he supposed that perhaps she had 
rented out the house, so he asked : 

“Do Susan Brown live hyere?” 

“Naw. Dar aint no Susan Brown no mo’. Wot yer 
wants wid Susan Brown?” 

“Er jiss wants ter see her er minnit. Wot yer means 
w’en yer say der aint no Susan Brown? Is Susan 
daid?” 

“Go long erway fum dat do’, nigger ! Wot bisniss yer 
got roppin on dat do’ dis timer night. Yer jiss tek yer- 
se’f erway fum dar.” 

“Er is Susan Brown’s ol mans, anner jiss come home.” 

There was a commotion in the house. Susan had over- 
heard the conversation, and she thought from the first 
that there was something familiar in the voice that 
years of submission had somewhat softened. And she 
was confused. It was either the voice of a ghost, or it 
was the husband in the flesh. Despite the orders of 
Berry, she got up and opened the door. 

“Who dat wants ter see Susan Brown, lemme look 
at ’im.” 

Henry saw his wife. He started toward her, but she 
waved him back. 

“Fur de luvver de Lawd, ef de daid aint come ter life! 
Henry, dey tol’ me dat you wuz daid, anner marri’d 
ergin, Lawd have mussy on me, wot izzer dun.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


135 


“Who dat mans yer marry, Susan?” 

“He name Berry Summerlin wot used ter be down 
ter de brickyod.” 

“An’ youse lawfully marri’d ter dat mans?” 

“Er sho is, Henry, anner mouty sorry. How come 
yer didn’t die, Henry, lak dey says yer did?” 

“De Lawd wuzzent ready fur me ter die er reckin. 
But aint yer gwineter git tek up fur biggity, Susan ! De 
law doan ’low er oomans ter git marri’d w’en she gotter 
husban’ already.” 

Berry was in the house listening. He was about 
to lose a wife and an interest in the house. He was 
thinking fast how to get Henry out of the way. Finally 
he hit upon a plan. 

“Am dis Henry Brown wot used ter live hyere?” 

“Dis all dey is lef’ uv ’im, butter sho Henry Brown, 
anner kim atter mer ol’ oomans.” 

“Youse ben in de chaingang, aint yer? You de one 
wot dey sont ter de coal mine fur stealin’ uvver mule, 
aint yer? Is yer sarved all yer time in de gang?” 

For years Henry had been submissive. He had been 
under rigid discipline, when to say a wrong word, or to 
display the least temper, meant the lash, and at first 
he was disposed to take what had been said by the hus- 
band of his wife ; but gradually his old self began to as- 
sert its right, and he resented the accusations. 

“Look hyere, Berry, er izzer free mans now, an’ dis 
am mer oP oomans. Ef yer sayes jiss one wud mo’ Iser 
gwineter buss yer wide op’n. Er aint ben ter de pen fur 
nuffin, anner ainter gwineter tek nuffin fum yer, no mat- 
ter ef yer is mer ol’ ooman’s husband, an’ er izzer guvvin 


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yer two minits ter git out’n dis house, kase dis mer house 
datter buyed wid mer own money, an’ dat mer wife in 
dar. Efyer gotter razzer, now de time ter hone hit.” 

Berry knew that if he didn’t move and move quick I 
he would not have any use for the house, and he in a few | 
minutes was ready to depart. All this time Henry 
stood in the yard, and if it had been light enough to have 
seen his eyes no one would have doubted his intention 
to send Berry hence. Susan was silent, awed by the 
near-tragedy, and amazed at the return of the dead to 
the living. As Berry moved away, the tension was 
broken, and she held out her hand to Henry. 

“Yer aint mad wid yer ol’ oomans, Henry?” 

“Cose er aint mad wid yer, honey, but hit sorter 
ruffle me ter come home lak dis. All er ax is dat mans 
doan come back. Ef he do, er is gwine right back ter 
de gang, an’ hit woont be erbout er mule, hit’ll be erbout 
er mans.” 

And they lived happy ever afterward. 


THE PLUM-COLORED KIMONA. 

The sole reason Marne Mitchell had for living was for 
the purpose of getting married some day, and to wear 
a plum-colored kimona. 

Her par was a brickyard hand some days and a 
worker at the phosphate works on other days, and he 
was unable at a dollar a day to satisfy the wants of 
his daughter in the kimona line. In fact, it was as much 
as he could do to furnish the meat and bread and shoes, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


137 


and therefore the subject of kimonas was never men- 
tioned to him. Her mar took in washing and ironing, 
while Marne was in service, which means that she 
worked for some family. Being only a house girl, not 
yet learned in cooking, her wages were only three a 
week, and her par laid this by for the house rent. This 
left Marne in a bad way to purchase anything out of the 
ordinary, unless her mar helped her. This she did, un- 
known to Dick, the father. She had the coveted kimona 
a week before the par saw it, and he probably would not 
have seen it then but for his coming home yesterday 
very unexpectedly, having hurt his foot and went home 
to nurse it. He walked in and found Marne with the 
kimona on. She had gotten through her work and hur- 
ried home that she might wear the kimona for a brief 
spell. 

“Ef dis aint de debbil ! Piece er scantlin’ falls on mer 
foot dis mawnin’ an’ hyere er is, gwineter be laid up 
fur er week er mo’ an’ de spenses gwine on all de same. 
Melviny, git me some hot water, honey, an’ lemme bave 
dis foot. Hit sho do hu’t.” 

As he started to take off his shoe, he happened to see 
Marne, who, in her distress at seeing her par suffering, 
had forgotten about having on the precious kimona. 

“Melviny, wot dat dat gal got on? Datter noo kiner 
jackit? Whar yer git dat, chile?” 

“Diss aint no jackit, par, disser kermonia. Aint hit 
poorty, par?” 

“Er wot? Er wot yer say? Wot sorter contraption 
hit am? Dem dar sleeves look lak deys too big fur yer, 
chile.” 


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Mame was delighted with the mild manner in which 
her par took the matter. She had expected a beating for 
indulging in such luxuriance, and here he was rather 
inclined to like it. 

“Dis wot all de ladies izzer wa’rrin’ now, par. Hit 
de lates’ style. An’ disser plum cullud un, taint lak Babe 
Ev’rett’s, hitter pink. How yer lak hit, par?” and she 
turned around to give him a better view. 

“Whar yer git dat noomonia, chile?” 

“Buyed hit, par, yer knows nobody gwineter gi’ yer 
sump’n lak dat.” 

“Wot hit come ter, chile, how much yer pay fur hit?” 

Mame saw the war cloud in the distance. The ques- 
tions were now getting pointed. 

“Hit didn’t cos’ much, par, only fo’ dollars.” 

“Fo’ dollars! Yer pay fo’ dollars fur dat piece er 
cloff?” 

“But par, dis am plum color.” 

“Doan keer wot color, doan keer ef hit apple color, er 
peach color, all or ax yer is, did yer pays fo’ follars fur 
dat piece er cloff, tell me dat an’ nunner yer foolish- 
niss.” 

“Ruvver yer ax mar ’bout dat, par. She lemme buyed 
hit, an’, par, doan yer seed dat hit plum color. Plum 
color wuff mo’n dat pink wot Babe Ev’rett got.” 

“Look hyere, Dick Mitchell,” said the mother, “doan 
yer gitter rizin’ any rucus ’bout dat gal’s kermony. Nun- 
ner yer money went ter buyed dat kermony, hit evvy 
bit mer money wotter wuks fur, anner doan wants ter 
hyeer ernuvver wud ’bout hit. Er kin stan’ yer foolin’ 
some er de time, but w’en dis gal jiss pine fur dat ker- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


139 


i mony an’ pine an’ pine fur er plum cullud kermony, an’ 
' all de uvver gals all ober Tybee got pink uns and blue 
uns and red uns, an’ she de onlies’ one dat gotter plum 
cullud un, I is gwineter buyed hit fur her effit tek de 
rent money, but de rent money dun tied up in mer hank- 
chuf dis minnit, anner dunno wotyer riz’n sicher rucus 
’bout. Put dat foot in dis wawm water an’ shot yer 
mout’, dat wot yer do.” 

Dick was satisfied, now that he knew the rent money 
was safe, and besides he had a bad foot and there was 
nobody on earth who would cure up that foot better than 
Melviny, but he did mortally hate to give in. He knew 
on which side of his bread was buttered, however, so he 
concluded to make the best of the situation. 

“Howd dat Babe Ev’rett scratch upper nufif money 
ter buyed dat pink noomonia, tell me dat, anner par on 
de chaingang?” 

“Ax me sump’n easy. Yer knows Babe’s mar ben 
on de chaingang herse’f one time fur stealin’ er pockit 
book fum de lady wot she wuk fur.” 

“Tell Marne ter kim hyere.” Marne had gone out 
of the room, fleeing from the wrath to come. 

“Whar dat Ev’rett gal git dat noomonia ?” 

“How I knows, par! Me’n Babe doan speak. She 
aint mer styler gal. Her par on de chaingang, dat wot 
deys tell me, anner doan wants nuffin ter do widder gal 
wots gotter par on de chaingang. Mer par honniss, he 
is.” Marne had sense. 

“Efifer cotch yer gwine wid dat Babe ezyer call her, 
er’ll tek yer cross me knee anner sho war yer out. De 
mo’er look at dat noomonia de mo’s er lakkit. Dem 


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sleeves sho big, but effit de style hit got ter g o.” 

And Mame went into the next room and stood before) 
the glass to feast on the loveliness of a plum-colored 
kimona. 

MANDY’S COUNTRY BEAU. 

Gabe Thomas is a hewer of wood which he hauls to 
town to sell. Some days he strikes a purchaser for his 
load at once; other days he drives all over the streets 
before disposing of his load. Therefore no wonder his 
moods varied. To find an early purchaser makes him 
content with the world; a late purchaser gives him the 
blues. 

In the course of his wanderings over Macon to dis- 
pose of his load of wood, Gabe found a sympathizer in 
the person of Amanda Timmons, “er cullud lady wot 
cook fur er w’ite oomans up dar in Vines-ville.” When- 
ever Gabe found himself with a load of unsold wood and 
was bogged up in the low grounds of sorrow, he drove to 
Vineville, and over the fence he received sympathy and a 
bite of something to eat. 

One day, about two months ago, while working his 
capacious jaws oer a lunch Amanda had given him, he 
remarked : 

“Yer is de goodist oomans in dis yer town, Mandy. 
Er jiss nachly luvs yer. Effer hadder stiddy job er sho 
would ax yer sump’n.” 

“Go long, Gabe. Wot yer wanter ax me?” 

“Dooz yer wants me ter ax yer anner aint gotter 
stiddy job?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


141 


“Er sho do, kaser jiss wants ter know wot fool 
re queshun yer wants ter ax me.” 

■d “Yer ainter gwineter git mad wid oV Gabe ef he ax 
yer, is yer?” 

“Ef yer mek has’e an’ ax me, but yer izzer was’in’ 
er heaper time wid hit. Dunno wot yer skeerder, kase 
dar aint nobody ter eat yer up ef yer ax hit.” 

“Dun tol’ yer er aint got no stiddy job, anner aint got 
no bisniss ter ax yer cep’n er hadder stiddy job.” 

“Look hyere, nigger, ef yer gwineter ax me, quit yer 
foolin’ an’ ax me, ef yer doan min’ er go in de house 
wair de w’ite folks am.” 

1 “How long yer ol’ mans ben daid, Mandy?” 

“Is dat wot yer gotter ax me? Yer ac’ lakker fool, 
dat wot yer do.” Amanda was getting tired of being 
trifled with. 

“Er izzer gittin’ ter hit, honey, er jiss wants ter know 
how long yer ol’ mans ben daid so er kin ax yer wotter 
wanter ax yer.” 

“Mer ol’ mans ben daid gwine on fo year dis comin , 
July, ef dat wot yer wanter know. How come yer didn’t 
ax me dat fuss?” 

“Den is yer got any notion er gittin’ ernuvver ol’ 
mans?” 

“Iser po’ lone widder anner spec ef de right kiner 
mans come erlong dat kin tek keer er me, er dunno wot- 
ter mout do. Go on an’ ax me wot yer gwineter ax me.” 

“Iser gittin ter hit. Dun tol’ yer er aint got no stiddy 
job.” 

“Yer is de mos’ aggervatin’ mans er evvy did see. 
Wot de matter widyer, mans ? Better go long an’ sell dat 


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loader wood stidder stayin’ roun’ hyere ter ac’ de fool.” f 

Having finished his lunch by this time, Gabe left his c 
wagon and leaned over the fence. Their conversation ^ 
was too low to be heard, but that night after the supper [ 
table had been cleared off, Amanda told the mistress of i 
ihe house that she was going to be married to a farmer, 1 
and she seemed very happy. 

A day or so ago, Amanda appearing to be in a bad ! 
mood, the mistress asked when the wedding was to take i 
place. 

“Lawsy, mussy, Miss Calline, doan ax me ’bout no 
weddin’. Wot yer rickin’ dat nigger done?” 

“Had another wife, I suppose.” 

“Wuss’n dat. Heap wuss’n dat. Yer ainter gwineter 
see dat nigger roun’ hyere no mo’, er boun’ fur dat.” 

“Why, what on earth did he do, Mandy?” 

“Dat nigger mek out he gotter farm on de Houston 
road, an’ atter er dun promise ter be he ol’ oomans he 
ax me ter loan ’im five dollars ter tek upper morgidge — 
sump’n lak dat — an’ er dat bigger fool datter loan hit ter 
’im. He sayed he cornin’ in town de nex’ week an’ sho 
pays me back. De nex’ week come an’ de nex’ week go. 
Den ernuvver week an’ no nigger. Denner goes ter mer 
pastor anner ax ’im ’bout Gabe Thomas. Mer pastor 
he ax erbout ’im an’ he fine out dat Gabe all er time 
gittin’ po’ widder oomans ter say dey be he wife an’ den 
borry er lotter money an’ dat de lasser Gabe Thomas. 
Denner jiss mek up mer min’ dat he sho gwineter pay 
Mandy. One day atter dinner er went down town an’ 
look for dat low-down triflin’ scoun’le. Twarnt long fo 
er fine ’em, anner say, jiss disser way, Gabe, er is sho 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


143 


9 gwineter sen’ yer ter de chaingang fur stealin’ dat fi’ 
s dollars fum me, anner jisser watchin’ fur er poleeces. 
i W’en dat nigger hyeerd me say dat he knowed wot wuz 
• good fur he wholesome. He didn’t wanter pull dat 
E money -out he pockit, but t’ank de good Lawd dar wuzzer 
, poleeces kimmin up de street, anner jiss fixin’ mer mout’ 
ter call ’im w’en Gabe he th’owed de money at me an’ 
hit he mule er lick an’ dat mule sho did run, an’ dar 
er wuzzer laughin’ fit ter kill mer fool se’f. Dat nigger 
sho did git out’n de way.” 

“Then I am not going to lose you.” 

“Law, chile, meat’n braid gooder nuff fur Mandy. Er 
never did lakker country nigger no how. Dey is all 
eejits.” 


WHO WAS SCARED THE MOST. 

The rain had run a number of negroes oil the streets 
under an awning, and the vivid flashes of lightning 
caused a conversation on how people are frightened. 
Some were afraid of lightning, and some didn’t mind 
it at all, so they said. In the crowd was Old Isham, an 
old warehouse hand, who took no part in the conver- 
sation of the younger set, until up came Old Mose, one 
of his kind, and to whom he had rather talk. This was 
the greeting between the two old-timers : 

“Dat you, Mose? Come out’n dat rain. Taint 
gwineter do dat roomatiz any good fur you ter be er 
sloshin’ roun’ in de rain.” 

“Ef dat aint ol’ Isum! Whar yer ben, Isum? How- 


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yer coprossity seem ter gashiate any how? Dat you er 
talkin’ ’bout roomatiz? Who got roomatiz? Er kin 
jump up an’ crack mer heels tergevver good ez you 
any day. Come talkin’ ter me ’bout roomatiz! Yer 
dunno wot yer talkin’ ’bout, man. But how izyer, ol’ 
man?” 

“Jiss sorter tolluble, Isum. Dis yer rain jiss kim 
down, an’ hit cotch me dout mer umberrel. Furgits ter 
brung dat umberrel evvy day. See dat lightnin’? Hit 
sho do skyeers me.” 

“Unkle Isum, wot de skeeries’ time yer evvy had?” 
asked one of the negroes. 

“Hit wuz indurin’ uv de war, den w’en hit wuz. We 
wuz in de battle, an’ young marster he tol’ me ter mine 
he hoss fur ’im. Dem booms wuzzer jisser flyin’ roun’ 
anner t’arin’ up de groun’, but young marster he dun 
tol’ me ter stay wid dat hoss, anner wuzzer gwineter 
stay dar ef dem booms didn’t tek me way. Er aint 
gwineter tell no lie, dis nigger wuz sho skyeerd. Yer 
could heer dem li'l’ bulluses er w’istlin’ all roun’ yer, an’ 
dem booms er axin’ whar is yer, an’ yer was dar, but yer 
wuzzent dar kase yer wants ter, tell yer dat right now. 
Spec dat wuz de fusstist timer evvy wuz sho skyeerd.” 

Mose was an interested listener, but he said nothing. 
One of the negroes said: 

“Yer know dat time me’n you went thoo dat cim- 
merterry ?” 

“W’en ? Dat time yer seed de ha’nts ? Er sho do.” 

“Wuz yer skyeerd?” 

“Wuzzer skyeerd? Didn’t yer seed me er runnin’?” 

“Hush yer mout’. Er wuzzer runnin’ merse’f anner 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


145 


didn’t tek time ter seed wot you doin’. Er so skyeerd 
er feel mer face git ashy.” 

“Dat aint nuffin’ ter how skyeerd er wuz. Er so 
skyeerd er lit over dat fence anner dunno w’enner dun 
hit.” 

“Er wuz so skyeerd er dunno w’enner git home.” 

Old Isham looked at Mose as if to say, “dese niggers 
dunno nuffin ’bout gittin’ skyeerd,” but Mose gazed at 
the falling rain, as if the conversation had no charms for 
! him. 

“Yer talkin’ ’bout bein’ skyeerd,” said one of the 
group, “lemme tell yer how skyeerd er wuz one time. 
Yer know dat time w’en de poleeces wuzzer lookin’ fur 
er nigger dat dun sump’n, dun furgits now wot hit wuz 
an’ dey gwine roun’ ter de houses er axin’ erbout dis 
mans an’ dat mans, an’ w’en dey tekker mans out’n he 
house in de yod an’ shine he eye widder bull-eye lantun 
ter seed efyer de right mans? Well, dey kim ter mer 
! house dat night, an’ dey rop de do’. Er say who dat? 
Dey say git up, yer black rask’l, an’ op’n dat do’ ef 
yer doan we gwineter buss hit op’n. Er knowed right 
I off dat dey wuz atter me, an’ er sho op’n dat do’ timer 
j lit on de flo’ fum de baid. Den de boss mans he tu’n dat 
j bull’eye on me. Dey tekker good look at me. One 
mans he say, he sho do look lak de mans we is atter. 
Gentel-mens! dis nigger wuz sho skyeerd. Er wuzzer 
jisser trimlin. Mer knees sho feel lak dey gwineter 
lemme drap on de groun’. Den ernuvver uv dem mens 
dey git on de sider me, an’ he say, op’n yer mout’, nig- 
ger. Er sho op’n mer mout’. Den look lak ter me er 
jiss kin hyeer ’im say, no, de nigger wot wese atter got- 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


ter brass toofey, an’ dis nigger got good tofies. Er jis 
hyeer ernuvver mans say, dat. so. Gen-tel-mens ! Talk 
erbout de w’isp’rin’ ainjils! Dar wuz ainjils er sho w’is- 
p’rin’ roun’ me dat night. Dey say, git back ter baid, 
nigger, yer ain’t de mans wot we wants. Dat mer 
skyeerist time.” 

Then it was old Mose’s turn. He spat on the ground 
and made a cross mark with the toe of his shoe. 

“Yer all niggers t’ink yer ben skyeerd. Yer aint ben 
skyeerder bit. Long timer ’go er wuzzer gwine thoo de 
ol’ buryin’ groun’ er col’ black night. Er seed de toom- 
stones, butter knowd dey wuz toomstones, an’ dey didn’t 
skeer me. But jiss befo’ er retch de gate er seeder ha’nt 
riz up out’n er ol’ marster’s grave. Yer dunno wot 
skyeerd is ! Talk erbout gittin’ o’ de fence an’ gittin’ in 
baid, an’ notter knowin’ hit, an’ yer knee so weak dat hit 
’bout ter let yer drap! W’enner seed dat w’ite ha’nt riz 
up out’n dat grave, an’ me dar all ber merse’f, an’ hit 
dok, an’ nuffin’ gwine on ter mekker n’ise, er wuz 
skyeerd. Ed doan min’ tellin’ yer er wuz skyeerd. 
Er so skyeerd er didn’t move, anner ain’t move yit. Er 
so skyeerd er couldn’t git any skyeerder, dat how 
skyeerd er wuz.” 

The prize was awarded to Mose. He was the skyeerd- 
est. 


THE DELIVERY BOY’S MISTAKE. 

Martha and Maria lived in the same alley, and their 
houses are near each other. They fell out some time 
ago about something, perhaps it was about the children. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


147 


and they were itching for a fight, needing only a proper 
cause to jump on each other, no matter if they were 
carried to court. 

Maria went to market Saturday afternoon to lay in 
the dinner supplies, and directing where the supplies 
should be sent, she went on down town shopping. By 
the time she had spent all her money doing a little shop- 
ping, she had forgotten all about the dinner. 

Yesterday morning when it was time to put dinner 
on and get the pot to boiling, there was no trace of the 
supplies. 

“Any you chilluns put dem t’ings erway?” she asked 
of the children. 

“Wot t’ings yer talkin’ ’bout, mar?” 

“Dem collards an’ dem inguns, an’ dem uvver t’ings 
datter git ter de market fur dinner.” 

| “We ain’t seed no collards’n inguns. W’en yer brung 
em, mar? 

“Weller do knows. Ef dat doan beat mer time. 
Wunner w’y do oomans didn’t sen’ dem t’ings! Look 
roun’ hyere, good, Becky, dey sho is hyere some w’airs.” 

A thorough search of the house failed to reveal any 
vegetables or material for dinner. 

“Look hyere, Dick, wot time yer came home yistiddy? 
Wuzzent yer hyere w’en dem collards come fum de mar- 
kit?” 

“Wot yer axin me fur? Ef yerd stay home stidder 
traipsin roun’ town sp’nnin all de money ter de fi’ cent 
sto’, anner ten’in ter yer bisniss, dem collards be hyere,” 
said Dick, trying to shave. 

“Doan yer gimme nunner yer slack, Dick Harris. Dat 


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de fustist timer ben down town inner long time, an’ den- 
ner jiss had ter go. But whar yer rickin dat oomans 
sont dem collards? Any yer chilluns lef’ de yod yis- 
tiddy, w’enner tol’ yer ter stay right hyere teller kim 
home ?” 

“No, ma’am, wese stayed right in de yod an’ play, 
didn’t we, Babe?” said the girl. 

“Well, all er gotter say is dat dar ainter smidg’n er 
nuffin’ fur yer all’s dinner. Braid’n meat all yer gwine- 
ter git fur yer dinner dis day, kase hit Sunday, an’ de 
sto’s all shot up. Er jiss tryin’ ter ricollic who dat oom- 
ans wuz datter buyed dem collards fum. Er sho tells de 
poleeces ’bout dat oomans.” 

“One boy kim hyere an’ ax us whar Marfy Morris 
live, an’ he had some collards in he han’,” said the girl. 

“Ef dat doan beat bobtail ! Spec dat de boy wot 
gwineter brug dem collards ter dis house. An’ dat boy 
ax fur Marfy Morris?” 

“He sho did, mar, anner spec dem our collards.” 

“Ef dat Marfy Morris tuck mer collards, er sho tek- 
ker stick an’ break er haid. Run up de alley, Calline, an’ 
seed ef yer kin smell de pot er bilin’. Wunner ef Marfy 
did git dem collards !” 

Whether Caroline smelt the cooking collards or not, 
she came back and said she did. That was enough. Ma- 
ria darted out of the house, and bolted into Martha’s 
house without even so much as a knock at the door. 

“Gimme dem collards out’n dat pot, an’ doan yer gim- 
me no foolishniss, neever. Er jiss nachly spiser teef, 
anner ” 

“Wot de namer goodniss de matter wid yer, Maria? 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


149 


Is yer jiss gone plum crazy? Wot yer mean ber cornin’ 
in mer house clatter way an’ doan knock at de do’ an’ 
kimmer bilin’ in hyere, an’ axin’ me ter gi’ yer mer col- 
lards out’n de pot. Youser fool, dat wot yer is.” 

“Mine out, Marfy Morris, who yer izzer callin’ er 
fool. Er buyed dem collards up ter de markit an’ de 
oomans sont ’em home, an' de eejit uvver boy brung 
’em ter yer house stidder mine, anner sho gwineter git 
dem collards er dey izzer gwineter be er rucus right 
hyere dis berry Sunday mawnin’.” 

“Well, ef dat doan settle hit. Sister Harris, fo Gawd, 
er nevvy knowed dat dey wuz yer collards. De boy kim 
hyere, an’ he ax fur Marfy Morris, anner tol’ im datter 
wuz Marfy Morris j’ss lak he say, an’ he say hyere some 
collards yer ol’ mans buyed an’ sont ter yer. Bill he kim 
home butter tex notice he nevvy say nuffin ’bout buyin’ 
l any collards anner ’lowed he jiss tucker noshun ter buy 
’em. Er is sho sorry, Sister Harris. Lemme gitter dish 
ter puttum in.” 

This action on the part of Martha so astonished Maria 
that she was speechless. She had expected Martha to 
show fight and that was what she wanted. So, when 
Martha had taken up the collards and placed them on a 
big dish, Maria asked for another dish. Then she di- 
vided the collards and said: 

“Sister Morris, bein’ dis Sunday, an’ mer fambly 
sicher li’l’ fambly, wese jiss ’vide dese collards — dey is 
mouty nice collards — kase dey izzer nufif fur bofe our 
dinners,” and she hurried away before she changed her 
mind. 

When she reached her own house she happened to 


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think of the onions and other things, and she paused on 
the doorstep, deciding whether to go back or not. She 
slowly opened her door and went in, saying to herself, 
as she heard the church bells ringing: 

“Ef ’twas any uvver day but Sunday, er mout go back 
an’ scrap fur dem onions.” 


THE ENGAGEMENT RING. 

After Gladys Jackson had her spat with Harelip Pete 
and cut him dead for Buckeye Bill from Jacksonville, 
she was, to all appearances, the happiest girl in all 
Yamacraw. She told the dressmaker, for whom she was 
the means of delivery of dresses and things, all about the 
fuss at the card party, and what sort of a fine and 
dandy man her new beau was. The dressmaker told her 
that when she was married to let her know in time, and 
she would furnish the wedding dress. 

But while Buckeye Bill was very attentive, he showed 
no signs of anything more than friendship, and day by 
day Gladys saw the wedding dress fade away. She con- 
cluded that she would bring things to a focus the next 
time he called, and this is what happened. 

“Er gotter tehgram dat mer owange trees got totched 
ber de fros’ in dat las’ cor spell, anner got ter be leavin’ 
yer poorty soon.” 

“Er do love owanges! Dey is de goodist fruit dat 
grows on trees, Mister Buckeye. An’ dem owanges blos- 
soms — dooz dey bloom all de year?” 

“Dey sho do. Yer kin smell ’em er mile off any day 


- t 




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in de year. But Iser fred dey ben totched ber de fros’ 
dis las’ col’ spell, an’ ef dey is, hits Katy bar de do’ fur 
owange blossoms fur dis chick’n.” 

“Dooz yer know datter nevvy did seed er owange blos- 
som,” said Gladys with a sigh. 

“Spose er ax yer mar ter let yer go wid me de nex’ 
timer comes back ter dis town.” 

“W’en yer gwineter kim back, Buckeye?” 

“All yer gotter do is ter lemme know.” 

“Wot er gotter do wid yer cornin’ back? Yer doan 
keer nuffin fur er po’ gal lak me.” 

“De debbul er doant ! Iser benner layin’ off ter ax yer 
ter go wid me ter Flurridy, but dar’s dat Haslit Pete in 
de way.” 

“Er spise de groun’ dat nigger walks on. He de 
low-downist triflest nigger in dis town. Dat nigger 
kain’t bresh er fly off’n me. Doan yer stan’ back fur 
dat fool nigger.” Gladys began to see the wedding 
dress. 

“Ef dat de case, er fotcher ring ter put on yer finger 
— dunno w’ich finger hit am — butter know dat yer got- 
ter w’ar dis ring, anner doan keer wot finger hit am, 
effit yer fum. Lemme put hit on widder wush.” 

“Wot dat wush, Buckeye?” 

“Dat yer sot de day nex’ week wenner come back 
fum Jacksonvilles an’ tek yer ter mer Flurridy home, 
an’ yer kin see er owange blossom right in de fiel’.” 

“Dat mouty soon, Buckeye, but ef mar lemme, yer gits 
yer wush.” 

Three days after Buckeye Bill had gone back to Jack- 
sonville to return for his bride, who should call but 


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153 


Harelip Pete, whom Buckeye insisted on calling Haslit 
Pete. Gladys retired to the shed room and put on the 
wedding dress that had been given her by her em- 
ployer. 

“Mer goodniss, Glad, wot in de namer de Lawd yer 
got on? Dat one er dese yer new styler frocks? Yer 
sho do look lakker lady now. Hit fit yer kiner quick 
roun’ de waistes, but hit sho fine.” 

“Hit sho is! Got sump’n finer dan dat. Wotcher 
thinker dat?” and she held up her hand so as to show 
the ring. 

“Fur de luver of goodniss! Lemme see dat ring 
good. Seem lak ter me datter seed dat ring afo.” 

“Naw, yer nevvy seed dat ring afo. Dis ring come 
fum Jacksonville.” 

“Effer mek no mistake, dat ring nevvy seed Jackson- 
villes. Dat ring come right out’n de tin cent sto’. Effer 
mek no mistake er seeder feller w’en he buyed dat ring. 
Effer mek no mistake dat de berry same ring dat Buck- 
eye Bill buyed fur dat Simmons gal wot live in Moc- 
casin Slide an’ se flung hit back ter him. Lemme seed 
dat ring ergin, Glad.” 

Gladys had secretly suspected as much. The stone 
didn’t shine as it did when she first got it, and besides 
the setting fell out twice. But there was a lot depending 
on that ring. First of all there was the wedding dress, 
and then there was a husband and a trip to Florida. 

“Pete, doan yer tell me no lie, did yer seed dat nigger 
w’en he buyed dat ring?” 

“Er sho did, kaser lookin’ right at ’im, an’ mo’n dat, 


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er seed dat Simmons gal w'en she th’owed hit at ’im 
an’ he pick hit up an’ put hit in he pockit.” 

The upshot of it all was that Gladys gave the ring to 
Pete and they were married next day. Pete had lied 
about the ring, which he pawned for four dollars, and 
with the money the newly wed had a swell blowout. 
When Buckeye Bill returned for his bride, he found her 
the bride of another; but he will probably never know 
that his ring furnished the wedding supper, and how 
Harelip Pete took his bride from him. 

THE INVALID. 

Old Lige lay on his sick bed, and after Minerva had 
used up all the remedies she had ever heard of, it was 
found necessary to call in the doctor, who, by the way, 
was a negro physician just from some northern college. 
Being one of her race, however, she was proud of him 
as a doctor, and she looked at him with a feeling of 
pride as he diagnosed the case. After the doctor had 
thumped, tested temperature and looked wise, Minerva 
asked : 

“Wot de matter wid de ol’ mans, Doctor ?” 

“There are symptoms of endocarditis, but I am in- 
clined to think it may develop into regurgitation in the 
cardiac region. When did he first complain?” 

“He benner kimplainin fur de las’ ten year, butter 
never paid no tenshun ter him, kaser didn’t know dat 
was de matter wid him. Is datter killin’ sickniss, Doc- 
tor?” 


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“Not necessary fatal, my good woman, unless there 
is congestion of the pericarditis. What did he com- 
plain of?” 

“Some time hitter mizry in he chist, some time he 
aint got no appertite, an’ some time he say he feel lak 
he want ter fall down, an’ some time he say he feel er 
gre’t big lump in he chist. He tek on moutly some 
time.” 

“Is he temperate in his habits? Is he addicted to the 
too free use of spirits frumenti?” 

“Er knows wot yer saying, Doctor, butter doan un- 
nerstan’ yer.” 

“I mean does your husband partake of stimulants to 
excess ?” 

“Yer has ter come ergin, Doctor, kase er seed right 
now yer ben ten’in dem niggers wot live on de hill. 
Wese niggers in Tybee ainter benner havin’ no doctor 
ter come see us. Ef we git sick we jiss tekker dose er 
castor il’n turkintine an’ ef yer git well hit all right, 
an’ efyer die hit all right. Aint dar no chaince fur de 
ol’ mans?” 

“Because a man’s valvular functions are impeded in 
their operation temporarily, it does not necessarily fol- 
low that the vital spark is quenched, but still there is al- 
ways an element of danger. But I would like to know 
something of his habits. Do you not know whether or 
not he imbibes too much?” 

“Lemme call Calline, Doctor, she go ter de school- 
house an’ she kin hyeer bettern er kin. Calline! Cal- 
line ! Oh, Calline ! Come hyere, honey, an’ seed wot de 
doctor wanter ax yer.” Enter Calline. 


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“My little girl, does your father ever drink?” 

“Fur goodniss sake, doctor, is dat all yer wants ter 
know? Yer kin go back, honey, er knows wot de mans 
wanter know now. Cose he drink, Doctor, he drink all 
he kin git dem han’s on, ef dat wotyer wanter know.” 

“How much does he drink, and how often?” 

“Who? Lige? He drink jisses longs de botler licker 
hob out, dat wot he do, an’ his dis yer blin’ tiger licker, 
dat wot hit is. Yer ax me fur de trufe, anner gwineter 
tell yer de trufe.” 

“Explain to me the difference between blind tiger 
liquor and any other kind.” 

“Heaper diffunce ! Good licker mek drunk come in de 
laigs, an’ yer know wot yer doin’, but yer kaint walk 
home. De blin’ tiger licker doan bovver yer laigs, but 
hit sho tangle up ver haid. De haid dun daid, but de 
laigs dey izzer wobblin’ all ’bout. Ef ye lives in Tybee, 
dem laigs tek yer ter Yamacraw. Yer kaint fool wid 
dis blin’ tiger licker.” 

“According to my diagnosis, your husband must be 
kept absolutely quiet, and I will prescribe a sedative. 
Send this prescription to a drug store and have it com- 
pounded. I will now thank you for my fee.” 

“Dunno nuffin’ ’bout yer fee, Doctor, but is yer gwine- 
ter come ergin?” 

“Certainly. I am always very solicitous of my pa- 
tients. Thank you for my fee, please.” 

“Wot yer mean ber dat, Doctor? Wot yer mean ber 
yer fee?” 

“Two dollars for my visit, diagnosis and prescribing.” 

“Two dollar! Two dollar fur lookin’ at de ol’ mans 


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anner skeerin’ me ter deff wid dem dognoses, seedless 
powders, an’ all dat talk ’bout dem sperrits fruki, an’ talk 
lak dat! Two dollar! Yer bughouse, dat wot yer is, an- 
ner tell yer right now wese aint got no two dollar ter 
th’ow way on sich monkey bisniss lak dat.” 

‘‘If you refuse to pay me my fee, I shall be forced to 
have you put on the black list.” 

“Who put on de black list? Er show yer, yer ignunt 
raskil you,” and in a very short time the doctor was 
floundering in the yard. Then Minerva walked in the 
house and thus addressed her lord : 

“Git out’n dat baid, yer lazy raskil, ef yer doan er 
izzer gwineter fix upper doser castrile’n turkintine an’ 
mek yer swaller hit, sho’s yer name’s Lige. Er do spiser 
nigger doctor. Er spiser mans what talk lak dat mans. 
Dunno wot de Lawd t'inkin’ ’bout w’en he mek sicher 
mans lak dat. Put me on de black lis’ ! Er is sho sorry 
er didn’t bruk he haid.” 

Lige arose from his bed and went to work as usual. 
By night he was entirely cured, and did not make a sin- 
gle complaint. 


THE BELATED GROOM. 

No doubt it was originally intended that the wedding 
of Bill Jackson and Sis Simmons should be a very quiet 
affair. One reason for this belief was that there was 
underground talk around the purlieus of Tybee that 
somewhere down in the turpentine region of the state, 
Bill had a wife already, and while this was strenuously 


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denied by Bill, there were people wicked enough to think 
that Bill was evading the truth. His reason, as it was 
given, was that he was always opposed to so much fuss 
at weddings “kase dar wuz allers too much fuss after- 
wards.” 

As for Sis, it made no difference, “jisso dey gits ma’ad 
ber er preacher mans, nunner dis gitt’n ma’ad ber er 
injestice uv de pieces fur her, dat dey haint.” 

But on the wedding night there was a good crowd. It 
was Sue Simmons’ gal who was to be married, and all 
Yamacraw was going to it, whether invited or not. Ow- 
ing to the underground remarks about Bill, fully half 
of the guests felt it in their bones that something was 
going to happen, and they didn’t want to miss it for the 
world. 

Bruvver Maddox, in his jimswinger coat, white tie 
and Bible under his arm, was there. Everything and 
everybody was ready except Bill. Bruvver Maddox 
knows what to talk about and entertain a crowd when he 
goes to a prayer-meeting, and what to say after the knot 
is tied, in the way of good advice talk, but he was shy 
on knowing what to talk about to an impatient crowd 
at a wedding with the groom overdue. 

While this painful silence was prevailing in the “set- 
tin’ room,” this is what was going on in the little shed 
room where the bride and her mar were putting on the 
finishing touches to Sis’ toilet. 

“Tol’ yer dat nigger wuz gwine back on yer, but yer 
mar doan know nuffin ; yer mar izzer plum ij jit, but yer 
see now, don’tcher. Taint no mo’n er spectid fummer 
low down turkintine nigger. Hyere all de cumpny in de 


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159 


sottn’ room, an’ de preacher mans dun come, an’ de cake 
dun bake, an’ de vittles dun cook, an’ de bride gotter 
fixin’s on, an’ no Bill Jackson yit.” 

“Dat de way widyer, mar, yer all de timer fussin 
anner fussin. Yer go out dar ter de cumpny an’ tell dat 
bow-laiggid Sam Passmo’ ter sneak in hyere right er- 
way.” 

Sam sneaked in. 

“Yer shot up dat mout,’ Sam, an’ lissum ter me, dat 
wot yer do. Izyer got dat pa’r licenses dat yer got fur 
men you dis las’ gone summer, tell me dat?” 

“Er sho is, Sis, gottum Johnny on de spot, an’ yer sho 
look lak yer sweeter nuff ter eats, mer honey,” said Sam 
admiring her at a safe distance. 

“Mar, go an’ tell de preacher mans we is ready.” 

It was hard to tell who was the most surprised, mar 
or Sam, but mar relied wholly on Sis, and whatever Sis 
said that night went, but it took her a minute to regain 
her equilibrium. 

“Dooz yer wants ter keep de cumpny waitin’ all 
night, mar?” 

Everybody felt relieved, none more so than Bruvver 
Maddox who had begun to bewail the vanishing fee. 

The crowd was surprised to see Sam walk in with the 
bride and take the absent Bill Jackson’s place, but after 
all a wedding’s a wedding. 

Just as congratulations began to pour in, in walked 
Bill, and it was plain to see that he had been in the lair 
of a blind tiger. 

“Fotch on de bride, ol’ ooman, an’ fotch her quick, 
kase hits time ter git hitched.” 


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Sue gave a savage look. “Dar hainter gwineter be 
no mo’ hitchin’ at dis house ter night. Mister Jackson. 
Yer didn’t come w’en yer sayed yer would, an’ mer Sis 
dun ma’ad ter Mister Passmo’.” 

“Den fotch on Mister Passmo’, kaser sho gwineter 
hitch ter somebody ter night.” 

At this warwhoop the guests scattered, Sam among 
the first. He knew there was going to be trouble, and 
there was too big a stock of cake and things to spoil, 
and he went for the nearest policeman. While Bill was 
being carried away in the misery wagon, the good things 
were attacked and finally destroyed. 

All the facts came out in court yesterday morning, 
and Bill was asked the cause of the tardiness that caused 
him the loss of the bride. 

“Jedge, Iser bleeged ter tell yer de trufe, kaser knows 
dat yer lemme off dis time. Er never did ax dis Sis 
Simmons ter marry me. She knowed datter wuz er 
ma’ad mans, dun tol’ ’er so many time, but she say wot 
diffunce hit mek ef yer dun lef ’ ’er, an’ she go git de 
licenses ’erse’f. Las’ night come anner didn’t know 
wot ter do cep’n ter git drunk, butter didn’t aim ter 
go ter de house, Jedge. Dat w’enner dun wrong, Jedge, 
er sho dun wrong dar.” 

“But why did you call for Sam to lick him for marry- 
ing the bride when you didn’t want her?” 

“Jedge, dat de skeeriest nigger in dis town. Er jiss 
wants ter t’ank him fur gittin me out’n er moutty bad 
scrape. Me hit dat nigger ! Jedge, effer yer knowed dis 
Sis Simmons lak I knows her, yer’d be sho sorry fur 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 161 

Sam. He got trouble on he han’s dout me hittin' 'im, 
he sho is.” 

The case was dismissed. 

OUT WITH THE CHURCH. 

, Phyllis is one of the old-time sort, and she would as 
soon think of missing going to church on Sunday as 
going without her breakfast. It was part of the day's 
duties. 

Lige never did want to go to church much. Unless the 
sermon was one of these lightning arrester sermons, as 
he called them, the kind that makes you feel good and 
not the kind that stirs the bile, Lige generally fell asleep. 
Besides, he had his private reasons for not wanting to 
go, but for the sake of peace in the family he never men- 
tioned them. 

Last Sunday morning was one of the days he didn't 
feel like going. The couple had arisen late, and Phyllis 
was stirring around putting on her things, the same 
things that had been going to church with her for thirty 
or forty years, the same bonnet, and almost the same 
everything else. Lige was sitting close by the fire smok- 
ing. 

“Jiss look at dat clock, mans, see how late hit gittin’ 
an’ hyere yer aint stotted ter git ready fur chu'ch.” 

Lige smoked on, not venturing a word in reply. 

“Git up fum dar, Lige, anner be gittin' ready, wese 
gwineter be late dis mawnin, anner 'spise ter be er traip- 
sin inter chu’ch atter de fuss prar.” 


162 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

“Yer has ter go long dout me dis mawnin, ol’ 
oomans.” 

“How come yer aint gwine? Yer wuzzent dar las’ 
Sunday, an’ hyere yer izzer not gwine dis Sunday. How 
come ?” 

“Jiss kaser ainter gwineter.” 

“Wot dem folkses gwineter say w’enner goes ter 
chu’ch evvy Sunday dout yer, wotter gwineter tell ’em?” 

“Better lemme lone ’bout gwine ter chu’ch.” 

“Woffer better lemme lone?” 

“Kaser aint stuck on gwineter chu’ch no how, dat how 
come.” 

“How yer gwineter sarve de Lawd ef yer doan go ter 
chu’ch, tell me dat ?” 

“You is gittin so good dat yer good ernuff fur bofe 
uvvus. You is gwineter be’n anjil bimebye right hyere 
in Macon.” 

“Wot in de namer de Lawd got inter yer dis mawnin? 
Didn’t yer brekfus soot yer? Wuzzent dem sossidge fry 
dun ernuff? Yer tol’ me ter fry de aigs on jiss one 
side, an’ yer ainter fussin’ ’bout dem, izyer? Tucker 
heaper pains wid dem biskit kase yer all de timer growl- 
ing in de weeky days ’bout de biskits wid too much 
sody in ’em. Dar wuzzent er specker groun’s in de 
coffee, anner sho kep’ hit hot fur yer. Den wot in de 
namer common sense yer git so fracshus ’bout dis 
mawnin an’ say yer aint stuck on gwine ter chu’ch ? Dat 
Gladys Tillin’has’ gal wot benner tekk’n singin’ lessons 
in Bosson Masschusets gwineter sing de Hole in de 
City, anner jiss knows yer wanter hyeer dat gal, so come 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 163 

erlong, Lige, yer aint got no time ter be er foolin’ kase 
hits sho gittin’ late.” 

“Who gwineter preach?” asked Lige, showing just a 
bit of interest. 

“Bruvver Thomas, cose Bruvver Thomas gwineter 
preach, you knows dat well’s I dooz.” 

“Denner doan go, an’ yer might ez well be moseyin’ 
erlong, ef yer doan wanter be too late ter hyeer dat gal 
sing, kaser doan go one step.” 

“Effer wants ter fine er mean mans, you is dat mans. 
I is sho ershamer yer. Er gre’t big mans lak you, too 
lazy ter draw yer breff, an’ ainter gwineter go ter chu’ch ! 
Hit am scan’lous, dat wot hit am.” 

“Jiss keep on, jiss keep on. Iser gittin’ mighty ti’ed 
er dis chu’ch bizniss. Er seed Bruvver Thomas, ez yer 
call ’im, doin’ heaper t’ings dat no preacher got any biz- 
niss doin’ de way er look at hit.” 

“Look hyere, Lige Johnson, jiss say wot yer please 
’bout me, call me wot yer wanter, but don’t yer say 
nuffin’ ’bout mer pastor! Yer izzer gwine jiss leetle 
bit too fur now. He evvy bit’n grain er heap better 
mans dan you ever dared ter be, yer low down triflin 
scoun’le yer. Talk erbout mer pastor er doin’ t’ings dat 
no preacher oughter do! Yer izzer pime blank lie, er 
gre’t big scan’lous lie, dat wot yer is. Gre’t mineter tek 
upper sticker wood an’ bus’ yer brains out. Er doan 
wants yer ter go ter chu’ch wid me now. Yer kin stay 
et home er yer kin go some place an’ kill yerse’f fur 
wot I keer.” 

The people who live in the next room told the court 
yesterday morning that they did not know what started 


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the fuss between Lige and his wife, but after they heard 
some loud talking there was a noise like the house fall- 
ing down and they thought it best to call in an officer. 

“Hit wuz jisser liT spute-ment ’twix’ me’en de ol’ 
oomans, Jedge, an’ we dun mekkup long ergo.” 

“Jedge, lemme tell yer jiss how it wuz ” 

“I don’t want to hear any more. If you two old peo- 
ple can’t live in peace without disturbing your neigh- 
bors, I will find a way to make you. You can go.” 

“Hyeer dat! Tol’ yer better lemme lone ’bout dis 
chu’ch bizniss.” 

“Er hyeers, but you jiss wait teller gits yer home,” 
said Phyllis, with her head high up in the air. 

IN A TYBEE BACKYARD. 

Melinda was bending over a tub washing clothes. The 
children were playing in the yard, all too small to be of 
any help to her. 

“Stop dat fuss, chilluns! Yer sho mekker fuss.” 

“Buvver went’n hit me fur nuffin, mar,” said Patsy, 
between her squalls. 

“George Wash’ton! Come hyere ter me, yer triflin 
scoun’le, come right hyere dis minnit, yer hyeer !” 

“She tuck mer braid, mar, dat wot she dun,” said 
George. 

“No er nevvy neever, mar, he gimme de braid,” said 
Patsy. 

“Doan er know he dun hit! Yer sot yerse’f down dar 
on dat stoop, an ef yer move er foot er w’ar yer out, yer 
liT raskil !” 


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165 


“Mar, buvver move he foot/’ said Patsy. 

“Yeh, an’ buvver better mine wot he doin. Er ainter 
feelin good dis mawnin no how.” 

'‘Mar, buvver wiggle he toe.” 

“Let him keep onner wiggling dat toe. Er wiggle 
him recly. Doan say nuffin ter him. Jis let him keep 
on. 

Melinda begins to sing. George takes it for granted 
that she has forgotten all about him, and as he begins 
to play with Patsy who makes no complaint. Then 
Patsy squalls again. 

“Wot de namer Gawd de matter wid yer now, Patsy? 
Wot ail yer dis mawnin no how?” 

“Buvver hit me wid dis big rock.” 

“Georgia Wash’ton ! Patsy, go in dat house an fotch 
me dat strop.” 

So delighted at the prospect of seeing her brother 
whipped with the strap Patsy runs into the house for 
it. George sees the trouble ahead and runs under the 
house. 

“Come out fum unner dat house, come right out! Yer 
hyeer me! Er sho gwineter wawm yer jackit w’enner 
lay mer han’ on yer. George Wash’ton, doan yer hyeer 
me er talkin’ ter yer?” 

But George knows he is safe as long as he is under 
the house, and keeps still. Melinda cannot carry her 
two hundred and fifty younds under the house, and she 
is reminded of her washing. 

“Ner yer mine, young mans, er sho git yer w’en yer 
come out anner gwineter sho tan yer hide fur yer, yer 
black raskil !” 


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She returns to the washing, while George falls asleep. 
In her hurry to get the washing done so as to get sup- 
per in time for her husband, George is forgotten until 
the supper table is ready and the vacant seat shows up. 

“Whar George Wash’ton?” inquiries the head of the 
house. 

“Fur de lanner Goshen! Whar dat chile? Patsy rund 
out do’s, honey, an tell dat boy ter come ter he supper 
errer come out dar an tekker stick ter him/’ 

Patsy comes in with the information that she had 
called and called and George didn’t answer, and it is so 
dark under the house that she can’t see him. Both mad 
and frightened, Melinda rises from the table so abruptly 
that she overturns the table and spills the hot coffee all 
over her husband and empties everything from the 
table and breaking a lot of dishes. But she doesn’t stop 
for this. She goes out doors and squatting . down she 
calls loudly for George. No answer. She tries to crawl 
under the house, but she is too fat. Then she calls 
again, calls a dozen times. George has heard her all the 
time, but George is foxy. She changes the tone. From 
the loud angry tone she gradually melts into : 

“Come git yer supper, honey. Yer par dun come. 
Ain yer dun sleep nuff, honey?” 

“Yeh, ma’am,” comes almost like a whisper. 

“Well, den, come on out fum unner de house. Hit 
sho time yer eat yer supper an gwine ter baid. Come 
on now, doan lemme hafter call yer ergin.” 

Melinda knew that to go back mad, or to frail 
George as she wanted to do, after her upturning of the 
supper, would be only making her husband mad and a 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 167 

row was sure to come, so she led George into the house 
saying : 

“Whar yer reckin dis liT raskil ben? He benner tek- 
kin er nap unner de house. He sho needer good lickin. 
Gi’ him some supper, oY mans, an den yer tek yerse’f off 
ter baid, yer black rascil!” 

And the storm blew over. 


A FAIR EXCHANGE. 

Mandy prided herself on her chickens. She was a 
cook for a family in town, and because of this she had to 
rise very early in the mornings so as to get the break- 
fast for the white folk, and it was late when she re- 
turned horpe at night, but she had Sundays to watch the 
broods as they grew up to be broilers and fryers. Dur- 
ing the week they were taken care of by Mandy’s mother, 
who was too old to work, and depended on what Mandy 
brought from the white folk’s house for what she ate. 

The other morning a big strapping man leaned over 
the lot fence and looked at the chickens. Old Maria was 
watching him. 

“Dat sho er fine lotter chick’ns, ol’ oomans.” 

“Dem chick’ns ain bover’n nobody.’’ 

“Er jiss lookin attum. Er sho do love t &S at fine 

chick’ns. How many yer got, ol’ oomans?”./ 

“Lak ter knows wot yer gotter do wid \J. iv many dev 
is. De las timer count um dar wuz thutty uvvum, dat 
wot dev wuz.” 


168 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

“Er knows er w’ite oomans wot want ter buyed dem 
chick’ns.” 

“Yer gwine long way fum hyere now. Yer sho up 
ter some debbul-ment. Ef dat w’ite oomans buyed dem 
chick’ns she sho gotter pay fur um. Chick’ns dun riz 
in dis neighborhood.” 

“De w’ite oomans datter talkin’ ’bout doan kyeer fur 
de price, all she want is fine chick’ns lak dese.” 

“Ef yer doan tek yerse’f off fum hyere er gwineter 
pick up sump’n an’ buss yer op’n. Yer hyeer wotter 
tol’ yer !” 

“Wotter dun ter mek yer so mad? Jiss ax yer ef de 
chick’ns fur sell. Da£ evvyt’ing er dun, an’ hyere yer 
come talkin ’bout buss’n me op’n! Yer talk lak yer ain 
got good sense.” 

Seeing the old woman look around as if for a brick, 
the man moved off. When Mandy went home that 
night her mother related the conversation with the 
strange negro. The next morning when Mandy went 
out to see her pets they were not there. They had been 
stolen during the night. She was hopping mad when 
she went to work that morning. 

As soon as old Maria could shuffle into her clothes 
she went out in the yard, and about the same time the 
negro of the day before was coming up the street. Maria 
picked up a pocketbook that had been evidently dropped 
by the tPff, and she just had time to look in it and see 
that it waarfull of paper money, when the negro looked 
over the fence and began straining his eyes, looking over 
every inch of the yard. 

“Er comes ter seed ef yer dun change yer mine bout 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 169 

lettin de w’ite oomans have dem chick’ns,” he said, look- 
ing with all his eyes over the yard. 

“Sho is change mer mine. Dem chick’ns dun sol’ 
anner got de money, an’ hit look lak ter me er is satter- 
fied wid de price.” 

The negro paused in his eye-search of the yard to 
wonder what she meant. 

“Who buyed dem chick’ns?” 

“Dunno why buyed um, anner tell yer sump’n else er 
aintei kyeerin who buyed um, so longs er got de money. 
De mans dat buyed um sho er ’onnis mans, kase he tuck 
de chick’ns an he lef ’ de money right down dar on de 
ground in de yod so we kin git hit soon dis mawnin.” 

There was no use for the man to look over the yard 
any further. In his rush after the chickens during the 
night he had dropped his money and now he couldn’t 
even think of claiming the pocketbook. He saw that he 
was caught, but he had to say something in leaving. 

“Er spec he gi’ yer heap mo’n dat w’ite oomans gwine- 
ter gi’ yer no how.” 

Then he went away sad-hearted. He had paid forty- 
two dollars for the thirty chickens. 

THE SLIM GIRL. 

“De style am sho good ter de slim gal dis year,” said 
Minerva, as she had her daughter Beatrice to stand off 
a few feet that she might more critically pass on the 
new dress the girl was going to wear to the picnic. 

“An’ hit sho good ter de pars,” observed a neighbor 
who had been called in to see the fit of the dress. 


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“How yer mek dat out, Sister Marfy?” 

“Kase hit tek so liT cloff ter mekker frock lak dat. 
Er knowed de time, an’ you dooz too, Sister Mernervy, 
w’en hit tek fo’teen yods er cloff ter mekker gal er 
frock. Seem lak ter me two yods er Gawd’s plenty fur 
er frock lak Be-attus rig up in now, hit sho do.” 

“Tun roun er li’l, Be-attus. Look lak ter me deys 
oughter be er belt er sump’n roun de wais’es er dat 
frock,” said Minerva, “but dey tell me dat dis de style. 
Hit sho do mekker slim gal look slimmer some how. 
Be-attus ain much mo’n er bagger bones no how, wid 
dem liT spin’lin laigs, an’ she ben dat way evvy sence 
she bawned, an’ hit benner job ter gitter frock dat look 
lak anyt’ing on her tell dis noo style come in de fash’n, 
anner sho glad hit come. Be-attus er mouty smot gal, 
but she ben so slim an’ boney lak some how de young 
mens dey ain ben kyeerin much fur slim gals tell dese 
noo frocks come. De young mens dun lef de fat gals 
an’ dey izzer runnin atter de slim uns. Dunno how 
come, but hit so.” 

“Spec hit kase de frocks show de shape er de gals 
de mostes. De young mens dese days dey mouty funny,” 
was Martha’s observation. 

“Er ainter braggin on Be-attuses shape, kase she ain 
got nun ter hu’t, butter mans er fool ter go on shape. 
Shape doan cook de dinner an’ doan wash’n i’on an mek 
clo’es an men britches. Mer ol’ mans nevvy marry me 
in dis wul ef he gone on shape, kaser weigh mouty nigh 
two hunnerd poun w’en me’n him git marrit. Dat gal 
Be-attus sho doan tek atter mer side de house. She 
git all dat slimness fum her par.” 


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171 


“Yer gwineter go ter de picnic, Sister Mernervy?” 
asked Martha. 

“Yer knows bettern dat. Yer knows dat ef Be-attus go 
er gotter stay home an’ git de ol’ mans some dinner, 
an’ yer knows Be-attus ainter gwineter stay home an’ 
she got dat noo frock ! Sides dat, er spec Be-attus come 
home ’gaged ter git marrit.” 

“How come?” 

“Er tell yer right now ef dat noo frock doan fotch er 
young mans dat de las’ noo frock she gwineter git. 
Dis am de slim gal’s time dis year, kase nex year de 
style mout change an’ dar ain no mo’ show fur de slim 
gal. Hit mout be de fat gal’s chaince nex year, anner 
sho gwineter git Be-attus o if mer han’s fo dat time 
come. Yer dunno wot hit am ter haves er slim gal on 
yer han’s. Look lak ter me de style sorter tuck pity On 
de slim gals dis year an’ gi’ um her chaince ter git 
marrit. An’ dis yer noo frock hit sho mekkum look 
sweet.” 

“Mer gal Merier gwineter dat picnic, but she er fat 
gal. Er gwineter tell her ter come back ’gaged ter git 
marrit, ef she doan er sho gwineter frail her. She ain 
got on no noo frock, Sister Mernervy, but she sho got 
her nerve. She gwineter mek some young mans ax her 
ter haves him fo she git back fum dat picnic. Er ainter 
sayin nuffin bout Be-attus, anner ainter sayin’ anyt’ing 
bout no slim gal but sho’s yer bawn no slim gal kaint git- 
ter haider mer Merier. Dun tol’ Merier how ter ack, 
an’ Merier say she gwineter do jis lak her mar tell her. 
Ef she do that, dar sho gwineter be er wed’n ter mer 
house fo hot wevver sot in good.” 


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“Er ainter sayin nuffin 'gin yer gal. Sister Marfy,” 
said Minerva slowly, “butter young mans ainter gwine- 
ter marry no fat gal ef she haves ter beg him. Er dun 
tor Be-attus ter ack de lady at dat picnic, an’ effer her 
noo frock an’ her shape doan cotch um, ter lettum erlone. 
Ef Be-attus kaint ack de lady, den she ainter gwineter 
git no oP mans, er tell yer dat right now.” 

“Yer needn’t git yer back upper bout hit, Mernervy 
Johnson, dat gal er mine sho kin ack de lady jiss lak 
her mar kin, ef she ammer fat gal. Er spise ter seed 
dese liT swimps wot dress up so dey collar bone show, 
an’ dey de same size fum*de groun up, gwine trainpsin 
roun dis town an’ gwineter picnics, an’ hyere mer gal 
got meat on her bones, good fat meat at dat, kaint git- 
ter smell at de young mens ! Er gwine right home dis 
minnit an’ tell Merier dat ef she cotch dat Be-attus gal 
er yourn puttin on any airs round her ter tek up sump’n 
an’ buss dat bagger bones, dat wotter gwineter do.” 
Martha was now too warm to be neighborly and went 
home talking to herself. 

As for Beatrice, she slipped a razor in her stocking 
and went to the picnic. 

THE SEPARATION. 

By easy stages the first quarrel led up to the final 
determination to kick out of the harness, divide house- 
hold effects amd go each other’s way. 

For twenty years John Danforth and Becky, nee Pass- 
more, had gone along through life, he as driver of a 
public dray, and she as a battercake builder and general 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


173 


cook. Not having any children, they had managed to 
save up enough to furnish their Tybee home comfort- 
ably, if not elegantly. They had their spats and dif- 
ferences, and up to Saturday night they had erupted, 
sending forth lava and smoke, then cooled down into a 
few days’ pouting and then settled down again. 

One day last week Becky had a crossyard fuss with 
a wicked and designing neighbor about church matters, 
and the wicked and designing neighbor went to John and 
told him things that sounded awful, and there may not 
have been a word of truth in what she told, but they 
had the desired effect of making John mad with his 
wife. 

‘‘Wot de matter wid yer, John? Is yer sick? Seem 
lak ter me dat yer need some res’, anner spec yer gittin’ 
oh an’ yer kaint stan’ ter wuk lak yer used ter.” 

“Effer gittin’ ol’er you sho is gittin’ ter be lakker gal 
ergin. Cose er know nuffin, jisser wotter pick up on de 
street.” 

“Wot de namer de Lawd yer talkin’ ’bout? Wot dat 
yer pick up on de street, tell me dat !” 

“Well, ef yer jiss bleeged ter know, dey is talkin’ hit 
dat you an’ dat wall-eye nigger Jim Mustin pow’ful 
thick.” 

“Jim Mustin! Dat nigger come hyere tuvver day ter 
ax me ter sot up wid he wife wot down sick wid de 
measles an’ dat de onlies’ timer seed ’im.” 

“Hit doan tekker mans haffer day ter ax yer to sot 
up wid he sick wife, do hit? An’ dey tell me dat wot 
he dun.” 

“Dunno who tol’ yer dat lie, but hit time fur me’n you 


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to ’vide wot liT wese got an’ me’n you quit. Yer kin 
jiss kermence to ’vide right dis minnit. Ise gwineter ' 
tek dat baid.” 

“Er tek de bero an’ de wash stan’.” 

“Er teks de chick’ns an’ de lookin’ glass.” 

“Er teks de chiny dishes, an’ de knifes an’ fawks an’ 
de spoons.” 

“Er teks de dinner table an’ de rockin’ cheers.” 

“Er teks de baid quilt wot mer mar gi’ me an’ de 
bowl’n pitcher, an’ de pyarlor table an’ de books an’ de 
pictures.” 

“Er teks de counterpin an’ Fido.” 

“Naw yer doan tek any Fido. Er raise dat dog fum- 
mer puppy anner feeds dat dog merse’f.” 

“Dun tol’ yer datter teks Fido^ an’ Fido gwine wid 
me, John Danfuff. Dat dog my dog. Who stay et home 
an’ tek keer dat dog? Who wash dat dog an’ git de 
fleas off’n ’im? Who look atter dat dog w’en you down 
town er drivv’n er dray?” 

“Effer go, dat dog gwine wid me, yer heerd dat. Yer 
is de mos’ aggervatin’ oomans dat de Lawd ever made, 
yer sho is.” 

“Yer de lowdownes’ triflinist nigger in dis town, anner 
sho teks Fido. Sump’n else, John Danfuff, doan yer 
cross me. Doan yer mek me mad. I is sho dun tucker 
nuff fum you already, an’ ef yer fool wid me I is sho 
gwineter buss yer wide op’n. Er ’spiser fool.” 

“Looky hyere, Becky Passmo’, yer sho izzer rubbin’ de 
fur de wrong way. Efyer say dog ergin er sho izzer 
gwineter pop yer one fur luck.” 

Then the lamp went hurling through the air. The aim 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


175 


was good and it struck John between the eyes. As soon 
as John could recover his sight he snatched a pitcher 
from the table, and his aim was as good as that of Becky. 
Then they clinched, and it was while they were rolling 
over the floor, knocking down tables and crockery, that 
an officer who had been sent for by a neighbor came in. 
Both were locked up, and both appeared in court yester- 
day morning. When the story came out in the evidence 
the court asked : 

“What about that dog? Which of you wants the 
dog?” 

“She kin have de dog,” said John scenting a heavy 
fine. 

“He kin have de dog,” said Becky, scenting a term on 
the chaingang. 

“Suppose I say both of you keep the dog?” 

“Jedge, efyer sayes dat wese never furgits yer,” said 
John. 

“Wese sho woont,” said Becky. 

And they went home and both fed the dog that had 
nearly starved during their absence. 

THE MINISTERING ANGELS. 

Elvira Anderson was secretary of the Ministering 
Angel Society, and she was proud of the job. Melinda 
Lammerson was the president, and there was a string 
of vice presidents, but Elvira did the work, and she was 
the whole cheese, as the boys say, and this brought 
trouble in the society because Melinda could not see the 


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use of having a president if Elvira was to do all the 
bossing. 

The meetings of the Ministering Angel Society were 
always held on Sunday nights, because it was only on 
those nights that the majority of the members, many of 
them cooks, could get off early from work. 

They met at the residence of the president, in Tybee. 
She always moved the bed out of the room and borrowed 
chairs from the neighbors on meeting nights. 

Sunday night, after the minutes of the previous meet- 
ing were read, there was a call on the members if they 
knew of any member sick or in distress. 

“Mister Pres’dent,” came from Fatty Fan, “Sister 
Harris, wot live down dar ber de bridge, she complainin’ 
moutly. Dat oomans sho need some nurrish-ment.” 

“W’en Sister Harris pays upper dues we kin look 
inner case, but Sister Harris owe de s’iety nine mont’s 
dues,” said Elvira. 

“Dar yer izzer ’gin,” said the widow Jackson, “Sister 
Harris ben out’n wuk fur mouty nigh er year now, sick 
in baid widder swellin’ inner knee-j’int, an’ hyere ver 
izzer tryin’ ter knocker out’n er liT nurrish-ment. Er 
wush somebody ’d run ergin yer fur seccerterry.” 

“W’y doan you runner ’gin me, yer ol’ shawt-laig 
cow.” 

“Come ter awder, ladies, yer mus’ riccolic we izzer 
meetin’ fur de gooder de s’iety,” said the president 
gravely and with dignity. 

“Mister Pres’dent, er wanter pote Sister Morris mouty 
po’ly. She wuzzer scrubbin’ uv de flo’ w’enner splinter 
stuck inner laig an’ her laig swell up bigg’n er barl. She 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


177 


benner puttin’ poultices on hit, but hit doan seem lak 
hit er doin’ uvver any good.” This from a member. 

“Sister Morris owe two mont’s dues,” said the secre- 
tary, looking over her books. 

“Mister Pres’dent, er seed Sister Brown yistiddy, an’ 
she say dat de s’iety ainter treatin’ her right, an’ she 
wanter draw out’n de s’iety.” This from a member in 
the comer. 

“Will de sister tell de s’iety how come Sister Brown 
aint ben treated right?” said the president. 

“She say dat de seccerterry fotch her er li’l scrapper 
chick’n so po’ he kaint fly, anner bowler soup dat yer 
kin see ter de bottom uv de bowl an’ hit tas’e sump’n 
lak pot-licker, an’ dat all she git.” 

“Sister Brown tell wot aint so. Mister Pres’dent,” said 
Elvira, “dat chick’n wotter sont dat oomans wuzzer fat 
pullet, an’ dat soup wuz nice thick vegeble soup anner 
made hit merse’f wid mer own two han’s, er sho did. 

; Wot dat oomans want? Dis s’iety ainter runnin’ er 
| rusteraw fur dem members wot too lazy ter git out’n 
i baid an’ cook fur deysevves.” 

“Dat aint de fustes time dat er hyeerd erbout yer fine 
I fat pullet, Mister Seccerterry.” The president was get- 
ting warm. 

“Ef yers got anyt’ing yer wanter say ’bout me, jiss spit 
hit out. Doan go er chawin’ uv de rag. Er say er gi’ 

• dat oomans er fine fat pullet anner bowl er rich vegeble 
soup, er sho did,” and the secretary was also warming 
up. 

“How long Sister Brown ben sick, dat wotter wants 


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ter know ?” This from a big fat member. They called 
her Big Hattie. 

“De book say she ben down sick two weeks dis comin 
’Chuesday,” replied the secretary. 

“Is she ben sick’n baid all dat time?” 

“She lay in baid one week an’ den she got weller 
miff ter knock erbout de house fur er week.” 

“An’ dat all she git fur her dues wuz dat lone liT 
scrapper chick’n anner bowler soup wot tas’e lak pot- 
licker?” inquired Big Hattie. 

“Ain’t datter nuff fur er oomans dat aint paid no 
dues in ” 

But Big Hattie would not allow her to finish the sen- 
tence. She rushed over to the secretary’s table and she 
grabbed Elvira by the wool and with a twist of the wrist 
sent her sprawling on the floor and sat down on her, 
snatching the minute book and using it as a fan. When 
she had cooled off from the exercise, and while Elvira 
was struggling to catch her breath, Big Hattie moved 
that Gladys Jackson be made secretary. The president 
put the motion and the only vote against the proposition 
was that of Elvira, but it was a weak one, for Big Hat- 
tie weighed near three hundred pounds. 

The meeting then adjourned. 


HOW SHE WON HER MAR. 

“Yer kin jiss pull off dem duds an’ tek yerse’f ter yer 
room, kase yer ainter gwineter gwine ter no chu’ch dis 
day. Yer hyeer me, chile!” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


179 


It was an awfully cold Sunday morning, and Gladys 
had been hidden away from early morning arraying her- 
self in a dress that she got from somewhere the night 
before, and she had longed for Sunday to come that she 
might wear it. She had just emerged from her little 
back room when her mother spied her. 

“Why, mar, hit aint cob er bit.” 

“Doan mek no diffunce 'bout hit bein’ col’ er not col', 
yer ainter gwineter gwine ter chu’ch dis mawnin’. Er 
dun sot mer foot down on dat. An’ yer kin jiss go an’ 
tek dat frock off’n yer.” 

“Why, mar, er tell yer hit aint col’, an’ er got onner 
heaper clo’es ter keeps me wawm.” 

“Dun tol’ yer dat yer ainter gwineter gwine ter no 
chu’ch dis mawnin. Izzer gotter beat hit in dat hod 
haid? Der igee of yer gwineter chu’ch in dat thin frock 
an’ cornin’ back home wid dis pennyceetus an’ pneumony 
an’ nuralgy anner dunno wot all ! Yer gotter bad col’ 
now, anner doan feel lak nussin’ yer thoo er long speller 
sickniss lakker did yer par w’en he had de as’ma. So yer 
kin jiss walk right straight ter dat room an’ shuck dem 
fixins.” 

“Hit aint col’, mar. You is gittin ol’ an’ yer feel de 
col’ mo’n mos’ people. Er got on plenty clo’es er tell 
yer.” 

“Mek no diffunce wot yer got on, yer ainter gwine er 
tell yer.” 

“Let de chile go ef she want ter,” said Bill, who was 
sitting close to the fire smoking his pipe. 

“Dar now. Hyere I izzer keepin’ de chile fum gittin 


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sick, an’ hyere yer put in an’ spile der chile. Yer orter 
be ershamer yerse’f ter spile dat chile datter way. Dat 
gal benner sniflin anner coughin’ all night, an now she 
want ter go out in dis col’ a’r an’ tek mo’ col’ wid dat 
thin frock. Didn’t er tell yer, miss, ter tek dat rag 
off?” 

“Er wisher wuz daid, kase yer all de timer treatin’ me 
lakker wuzzer dawg, dat wot yer dooz. Hyere er wuks 
all de weeky days an’ save de money ter buyed me dat 
dress an’ wanter go ter chu’ch an’ hyere yer woont 
lemme. Er sho wisher wuz daid. Den yer be sorry yer 
treat me disser way.” 

“Shot yer mout’ yer imperdent liT rat you. Er’ll tek 
upper stick anner frail yer good, yer triflin liT devil 
you.” 

“Er tor Marfy Lewis dat wot yer gwineter do. She 
gotter noo dress an’ she say she gwineter chu’ch dis 
mawnin an’ she jiss know dat you ainter gwineter ’low 
me ter go kase you izzer mean oomans an’ yer woont 
’low me ter go ter chu’ch kaser aint got nuffin ter wair.” 

“Wot Marfy Lewis dat yer talkin’ ’bout. Dat aint dat 
pop-eye Jane Lewis’ daughter ! She live down in Har- 
ris alley.” 

“Dat de one, anner do nachully ’spise dat Marfy 
Lewis. She all de time say dat you shamer me fur ter 
gwine any place kase yer dunno how ter dresser gal.” 

“Wot she know ’bout hit. Spec dat pop-eye mar er 
hern tol’ her ter say dat.” 

“She gwineter be ter chu’ch terday an’ she sho gwine- 
ter tell de peoples dat yer shamer me, dat jiss wot she 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


181 


gwineter tell ’em. But hit doan mek any diffunce now, 
kase hit pas’ de time any how. Er wisher wuz daid.” 

“Whot sorter frock dat Lewis gal got?” 

“Hitter blue dot an’ hit aint good ez mine, kase mine 
costes de mos’ an’ sides dat mine er princiss cut an’ her’n 
er impier gown dat aint in style, an’ mine in style.” 

“She tell yer dat she gwineter chu’ch dis mawnin ter 
show off dat impier gown!” 

“Er got witness she say hit. She say hit right afo 
Mary Jones, an’ den w’en she say yer ainter lemme go, 
an’ dat yer shamer me. She sho sayed hit.” 

“Bill, look at de clock, er aint got mer specs on.” 

“Hit mouty nigh ’lebben erclock, effer mek no mis- 
take,” said Bill, knowing that his wife had been con- 
quered. 

“Tu’n roun’ er liT, Gladys, er wants ter see how yer 
skut hang. Yer petticote showin’ er liT. Dat’ll do. 
Now yer better hurry up, chile, er yer be too late ter 
hyeer de fuss singin’. Ef yer see dat pop-eye Lewis gal 
dar, you teller fur me dat yer mar ainter shamer yer, 
an’ dat yer mar good ez her mar evvy dar’d ter be. Er 
wisher had dat pop-eye Jane Lewis whar er could gouge 
her eye out. Gitter move on yer, chile, yer jisser creepin’ 
erlong. Yer gwineter be too late ef yer doan mine.” 

As Gladys strutted out she cut her eye at Bill. Bill 
lowered his head to hide a grin. As his wife looked out 
of the door to see if Gladys was hurrying he said to him- 
self softly : 

“Dat gal she sho tek atter her daddy. She sho know 
how ter gitter roun’ de ol’ oomans.” 


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THE NORTH POLE. 

“Mer liT gal gimme er chill lass night.” 

It was Bill saying this to the draymen, as they settled 
down to dinner at the noon hour yesterday. The other 
draymen looked at him in wonder. They knew that 
Bill’s daughter was an awful smart girl to be able to read 
the newspapers off hand without spelling out a word, 
but they couldn’t imagine how she could give her father 
a chill. 

“She reed in de paper bout some cook dun foun de 
norf pole. She saves de norf pole up dar whar deys 
drinkt ice water alls de time, an alls yer haster dooz 
w’en yer wants ice cream izter go out’n milk de cow, 
an’ fo yer kin fotch hit in de house hit ready fur de 
spoon.” 

“Wot de norf pole, Bill?” asked Pete. 

“Dat wotter ax mer liT gal, an’ she sayes hit de fur 
een er de wul, whar hit col’ an whar dey is evvylastin 
ice. She sayes dey is whole mountins er ice an hit nevvy 
melt, jiss stay ice all de time.” 

“Ef hit stay ice all de time, how yer git ice water?” 
Jim was always inquisitive. 

“Cose deys bile hit. Mer liT gal reed bout de snow 
an de fros’ an de ice bugs an all dat.” 

“Fur de lan sake, is deys ice bugs? Er hyeerd tell 
bout tater bugs an big bugs an bug house, but dat de 
fusstes timer hyeer ’bout ice bugs,” said Pete. 

“How big dem bugs, Bill?” 

“She sayes some uvvum bigser house. Er ax er ter 
reed dat ergin, but dat de way hit reed.” 


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183 


“Hyere one chile dat doan want no norf pole in his’n. 
Er ain gwine no place whar deys has bugs dat big. 
Whar yer sayes dat norf pole is?” 

“Dunno, but hit soun lak hit up dar bout Noo Yawk 
somewhar. Dat wot mer liT gal say. Dis cook went 
dar any way, an’ she sont back word dat she dun foun 

de pole. All she say she foun hit, jiss lak she fine er 

nickel in de road. Hit kaint be much er she would say 
heap mo’n dat bout hit, but dat paper sho mekkin out 
hitter big t’ing ter fine de norf pole, doan kyeer wot 
kiner pole hit is.” 

“Spec hit one er dese wi’less tellerfawn poles, kase hit 
noo an deni peoples in de norf ain foun out bout hit 
yit.” 

“Atter deys fine hit, wot deys gwineter dooz wid hit?” 

“Mer liT gal sayes deys rund de Noonitid States flag 
up on hit. Spec dem big ice bugs eat up dat flag.” 

“Yer sayed dat dis pole at de fur een er de wul?” 

“Dat wot dey sayes.” 

“Spec deys git upper scusshun ter go dar fo long. 
Deys all de time gittin up dem scusshuns. Wot yer 
reckin deys tek yer dar fur?” 

“Hyere one chile wot doan go on dat scusshun. Diss 
nigger ain gwine no place whar hit so col’ dat de ice 
doan melt, an’ whar deys got ice bugs bigser house. Er 
doan wants leave oh Macon an ol’ Georgy whar all de 
ice ain ready-made, an’ whar hit melt doan kyeer whar 
yer put hit. An’ de biggist bugs we has is de cheench, 
an’ yer neent has dat ef yer sprinkle de cracks er de 
baidstid wid kairsene ile. Er ain kyeerin bout seein de 
norf pole ner de eas’ pole ner de wes’ pole nor de souf 


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pole. Diss town fuller poles, an sides dat diss yer wag- 
gin pole gooder nuff fur me.” 

“Ain dat de trufe?” 

“An’ hyere er nuvver chile dat ain gwine no place 
whar yer kaint has no good ol’ summer time. Er wants 
ter lives an’ die whar yer kin sleep out do's mouty nigh 
all de year. Is dar anybody livin whar dat norf pole is?” 

“Mer liT gal says dem some kiner peoples, er dun 
furgits de name uvvum, but deys dress up in bar skin an 
deys houses made out’n snow.” 

“Fur de lanner Goshen! Wotter nigger look lak livin 
inner house made er snow an’ he clo’es made er bar 
skin? Dat sho ain no lan fur de nigger. Wot de nig- 
ger wants is clo’es made out’n skeeter nettin in de sum- 
mer time cep on Sundy w’en he jiss bleege ter put on er 
stiff shut. Wot dem peoples out dar gwineter dooz w’en 
deys die an’ go ter de bad place? Spec dat fi’ down dar 
feel so good deys wants ter stay dar alls de time. Dem 
kiner people gwineter make hebbun out’n de bad place. 
Deys woont be dar two days fo deys gwine roun gittin 
peoples to vote ter gi’ de debbul er life time job.” 

“Er doan wants no norf pole. Deys kin tek all de 
norf poles dey wants. Gimme ol’ Macon.” 

And they all agreed that the north pole had no attrac- 
tion for them. 

BACK-BONELESS MULLET. 

“Dat fish youse eatin, Bill, sho smell good. Wot kiner 
fish dat yer got? Look lak er knows de smell, but some 
how hit ain nachul.” This was Jim, the cut-rate dray- 


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185 


man, when the other draymen opened up their dinner 
buckets yesterday. 

“Taint nuffin but mullet. Mer lan sakes, mans, doan 
yer knows de smeller mullet, an’ dat wot yer ben raise 
on? Sump’n de matter wid yer smeller, Jim,” said Bill. 

“Er is lak you, Jim, dat doan smell lak mullet, an’ 
den hit do. Yer musser cook dat mullet wid sump’n ter 
tek de right smell out’n hit.” This was Pete. 

“Hit de jinnerwine ol’ mullet wot yer git fum Flurridy, 
an’ wot yer benner gittin evvy sence yer er boy. How 
hit smell ter yer?” 

“Wot yer wants ter ax dat fool quesshun fur? De 
ijee er yer axin er nigger how er fried mullet smell. Hit 
smell good, dat how hit smell! Er gwineter tek homer 
bunch dis night effer lives an’ mek de ol’ oomans cookum 
fur supper. Dem wot yer got dun got me in de noshun 
fur mullet. Mer mout’ jisser wawtrin fur um dis min- 
nit 

“Efferder knowed yer so hongry fur mullet er sho 
would er ax de ol’ oomans ter putter few mo’ pieces in 
de buckit. Butter foun out sumpin bout mullet datter 
gwineter tell yer, an’ hit wot mek hit smell so good, but 
hit tas’e heap gooder.” 

“Mek has’e an’ tell wot yer gwineter tell us bout de 
mullet. Wot yer wants ter kid us dat way fur? Doan 
yer seed how yer mek us er heap mo’ hungry?” 

“Er is fixin ter tell yer right now. Yer git yer er 
buncher mullet, an’ yer tekkum home an’ yer tell de ol’ 
oomans ter clean um lak she all de time clean um. Den 
yer tekker shop knife an’ yer cut out de back-bone. Jiss 


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slash hit right out an’ doan leaver specker dat hone in 
hit. Den yer git yer some meal an’ yer th’ow er liT salt 
in de meal. Now git de frine pan an’ git yer lod het 
up. Th’ow in yer fish an fry hit brown. Den tek hit 
up an’ git yer hoecaker co’n braid. Sot down ter de 
table an’ dar yer is.” 

“Wot yer tek out de back-bone fur, Bill?” 

“Dat wotter fine out, er tell yer. De back-bone de 
rank pot uv de mullet. Dat wot mek de mullet smell so 
rank an’ dat wot mek hit tas’e dat way. W’en yer tek 
de back-bone out yer leaves de meat sweet an’ hit tas’e 
bettern dis pumperno fish wot de w’ite folks go crazy 
bout. De w’ite folks ain ben eatin mullet, kase deys say 
hit too rank fur nobody but us niggers, but deys foun 
out dat all yers gotter dooz is ter cut out de back-bone 
an’ git shedder de rank smell an tas’e, an’ now de w’ite 
folks eatin mullet sameser nigger an’ deys kaint gitter 
nuff.” 

“Bill, whar yer git dat receipt? Yer li’1’ gal musser 
reed dat in de paper. Er is yer tellin uv de trufe?” 

“Mer li’1’ gal reed hit in de paper all right, butter 
ain tellin yer no lie bout dat back-bone. Alls yer gotter 
dooz izter gitter bunch an dooz lakker tell yer. Hit mek- 
ker noo kiner fish out’n hit. Hit good nuff lak hit wuz, 
but w’en de back-bone tek out’n hit, ef days any gooder 
fish er doan knowed whar hit gwineter come fum.” 

“Er sho gwineter gitter bunch fo er goes home. How 
bout vouse, Pete?” 

“Er dunno how er kin waits tell er goes home. Er 
dun eat mer dinner, but atter er gitter smell er dat 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


187 


mullet wot ain got no back-bone er is jisses hongry lak- 
ker wuz at fuss. How come no nigger nevvy thunk 
bout dat back-bone bisniss?” 

“Dat wat git me. Hitter sho sign er hod times ef de 
w’ite folks go ter eatin mullet. De w’ite folks benner 
mouty long time finein out bout wot good. Dis back- 
bone bisniss soun good, but yer doan haster tek de back- 
bone out ter mek um tas’e good ter me.” 

“Er is sho wid yer on dat/’ 

And that night the back-bones were taken out of a lot 
of mullet. 

WHEN THE PRESIDENT COMES. 

The members of the Tybee Sunshine Club assembled 
as usual to discuss the events of the past week, about 
which their knowledge is limited to what they hear, or 
overhear, their employers talk about. 

“Er hyeer de boss say dat de pres’dent gwineter comes 
ter Macon/' said Andy. 

“Dunno wot de namer Gawd he want ter come ter dis 
town fur, w'en he kin git all he want ter eat up dar in 
Washin'ton,” observed Joe. 

“Law, chile! Heaper diffunce in wot yer gitter eat 
in dat town an’ dis hyere Macon, Georgy,” said Andy. 

“How come dey any diffunce? Braid's braid, an' 
neat’s meat, doan kyeer whar yer is, cep'n yer down ter 
le stockade!” 

“Dat so, but look at de braid yer git up dar an’ wot 
^er git down hyere. Hit light braid, nuffin but light 
jraid up dar. Down hyere hit biskit an’ good ol’ co’n 


188 


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braid, de ginnerwine hoecake, de bessus braid dat evvy ^ 
wuz, doan kyeer wot dey say.” 

“Spec Mister Taf’ sho do love good eatin. Er seeder 
pitcher uv him one time, an’ he gotter paunch on him f 
wussun er bark” 

“Who talkin bout Mister Taf’? Weser talkin bouti c 
de pres’dent uv de Noonitid States, an’ hyere yer come 1 
buttin in bout Mister Taf’? Er sho do spise ter hyeer e 
er mans be so ignunt.” 

“Sence yer knows hit all, wot de namer de pres’dent ^ 
er de Noonitid States, tell me dat?” 

“Hit Hoke Smiff, dat wot hit is. Ax me sump’n hod ^ 
nex time.” f 

“Er jiss tellin jer wotter hyeerd de boss mans say. a 
Yer needn't git yer back upper bout hit. How yer spec ^ 
er common nigger ter know who pres’dent er who ain ! • 
pres’dent, ef he kaint vote?” ) 

“Ef he kaint vote he kin reddish, an’ dat wotter dun, ! 5 
kase mer name down on de book. Er seed de mans w’en i 1 
he writ hit down.” 

“Wot de pres’dent gwineter come hyere fur?” 

“Git sump’n t’eat, er tol yer ? How many mo time er f 
gotter tell yer dat ! Some er dem big w’ite folks down : ( 
town dey gwineter gi’ him er supper, dat wotter hyeerd f 
de boss mans say.” ( 

“Gen-tel-mens ! er sho lak ter be ter dat supper. Er 1 
sho gitter nuff ter lass me fur er spell one time. Wot, ; 
yer reckin dey haves fur dat supper?” 

“Ef dem w’ite folkses down town say, ‘Joe, d e pres’- ] 
dent gwineter come ter seed us, an’ wese want ter fix 1 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


189 


him upper jam-up supper, an’ we leaves hit ter you ter 
git dat supper up/ wot yer gi’ him ter eat?” 

“Fus t’ing er do er awder me er kagger bear anner 
pack de ice all roun de kag. Denner git ol’ Jim Bryan’ 
wot sell bobbecue ter gitter midlin size shote an’ bobbe- 
cue hit lak hit fur er Chrismus gif’. Denner git ol’ Hes- 
ter, wot keep dat rusteraw on Fote Street, ter cook me 
er big disher sossidge, an’ fry me er pan fuller mullet. 
Denner git me one er dese red cross hams anner slice 
hit lak yer got plenty uvvit an’ hit doan coss nuffin. 
Denner go up ter de mokkit anner git a pan fuller 
fried chicken. Dunno effer doan haves er chick’n 
pie, too. Denner git some liver an’ some onions, 
anner fry um tell de onions jisses tenner! Denner 
git me some hambug steak anner fry dat an keep hit 
hot. Mebbe er git some orsters, ef hit orster timer de 
year, an’ some crobs an’ some swimps. Denner gits 
some er dese channel cats, erbout so long, anner fry 
um in meal tell deys brown. Denner gits Aunt Hanner 
ter bake me er hoecake, bout so big. Denner git Mer- 
lindy Powers ter mek up some biskit, er whole tray 
fuller biskit. Er bleege ter have some poke chops, an’ 
denner gotter haves some spar ribs an’ backbone, wid 
flour dumplins. Spec er better haves some tripe an’ 
chittlins, kase de pres’dent mebbe nevvy tas’e an dem 
up dar whar he stay. Denner put all dat on de table, 
anner say, ‘Mister Pres’dent, sot down ter de ol’ fashin 
Georgy supper an’ eat hearty. Hope yerse’f ter anyt’ing 
yer wants, kase dey is plenty uvvit, an’ ef dat ain nuff 
on de table wese kin cook yer some mo’.” 


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“Yer ainter gwineter furgit de possum’n taters an’ de 
hog-haid souse?” 

“Er plum furgit dem, an’ dey sho gotter be dar.” 

“Whar de pie, mans?” asked Pete. 

“Pie! Who de debbul want pie widder supper lak 
dat?” 

“Jiss ter fill up on w’en he git thoo eatin,” said Pete. 

“Wot yer reckin de pres’dent gwineter say ef he sot 
down ter er supper lak dat?” was asked. 

“Wot he gwineter say? Ef he eat all dat ter one sup- 
per, he ainter gwineter say nuffin. De kurrerner gwine- 
ter say he died er cute injecshun, an’ dat all he kin 
say.” 

THE MANICURE ARTIST. 

No one knew why Emma Davis, the delivery girl for 
the dressmaker, lost her job. It was told around that 
Emma talked too much, and that whenever she carried 
a hat or a dress to some of the dressmaker’s customers 
she would sit down for hours at a time and tell who was 
bad pay, and hand out a line of gossip about other cus- 
tomers that was damaging to the trade. Be that as it 
may, it was on Monday that Emma blossomed out as a 
manicurist. She had seen her employer manicure the 
nails of her customers, and, after trying it on her mother, 
she felt ^s though she was an artist, and as there were 
no manicurists of her color in the city, she thought she 
could strike it rich. She fitted up a room at her house 
in Tybee, and on the front gate she placed this sign of 
her own manufacture : 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


191 


Emma Davis, 

Man Curing 
done. 

It so happened that the first to come along and read 
that sign was Slowfoot Sal. This was unfortunate, for 
the reason that Sal had it in for Emma ever since the 
Percival St. Clair episode, when Percival carried Sal 
to ride in his auto, thinking he was taking Emma. But 
Sal was bent on having her fun, and into the house she 
walked, without knocking on the door. 

“Er seed yer sign on de gate, anner wants er man- 
cured. Yer knows dat box-ankle Tom Buzby, wot ben 
sick wid de chillun fever so long? Well, he de mans. 
Wot yer ax ter cured him?” 

“Yer is mistook’n bout dat sign. Hit doan say datter 
meks menses well, hit say er man-cure ladies. Er trims 
deys finner nails, an’ clean um an’ polish um, an’ mek 
um look lakker lady’s. Dat wotter dooz. Kinner man- 
cure youse dis mawnin?” 

“Yer sho kin. Mer razzer gitt’n so dull whar er ben 
cuttin taters wid hit, datter kaint chop off mer nails. 
How much yer ax ter trim er lady’s finner nails?” 

“Only twenty-fi’ cent. De price in de city is fifty 
cent, butter wants ter bill upper trade,” said Emma, as 
sweetly as she knew how. 

“Er ain got butter quarter, anner jiss bleege ter gitter 
botler beer. Er pays yer fifteen cent anner pays yer de 
ress w’enner come ergin ef dat soot yer.” 

“Sot down in dat cheer ber de table, Miss — wot yer 
sayed yer name wuz?” 


192 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Neent mine bout de name. Er name Miss Brown, 
but dat all right, jiss chop off dese yer claws.” 

“Yer iz gotter mouty fine shape han, Miss Brown; er 
spec yer is not used ter hod wuk.” Emma was getting 
her scissors and files ready. 

“Ner yer mine bout de wuk. Fix up mer nails.” 

“Er jiss knows yer izzer lady kase yer got dese long, 
taprin fingers. Er kin mouty nigh teller lady ber her 
turners.” 

“Look hyere, Emma Davis, er is gittin doggone ti’eder 
yer pokin fun at dem mud-hooks. Chop off dem nails.” 

“Er beg yer poddun, Miss Brown, er didn’t mean ter 
be rude.” 

“Rude? Wot yer mean ber dat? Doan yer go ter 
slingin any bad talk roun me. Er doan stan fur no gal 
ter gimme any dat liner talk. Rude yer foots ! Whar 
yer larn dat?” 

“De ladies wotter wuk fur say dat. Deys ainter bitter 
horn in it, er clar deys ain. Hit ben some time sence 
yer nails ben man-cured, Miss Brown.” 

“Hit sho is. Er jinnerly dooz mer own man-curing, 
but hit jiss lakker tol’ yer, de razzer git dull. Iz yer 
good on toe nails?” 

“Us man-cure ottists only wuk on de turners.” 

“Er gotter big toe nail dat ben gi’in me hail kerlumby 
ever sence er git off’n de gang, anner wants dat man- 
cured, too. How much yer gwineter ax me fur dat?” 

“Er didn’t knowed yer ben on de gang.” 

“Dat kase yer doan reed de paper. Ef yer git de pa- 
per regler, yer kin keep up wid s’iety. Yer knows er ben 
on de gang now, er reckin, kaser dun tol’ yer. Mine out 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 193 

how yer choppin off dat finner nail ! Yer cut dat nail ter 
de quick anner buss yer wide op’n.” 

By this time Emma was nil a-tremble. She had no 
idea of who her customer was, but she knew now that 
whoever she was, she had been on the gang, and it 
would never do to cross her. She finally trimmed the 
nails and polished them until they shone. She was hop- 
ing that her customer would forget about the toe-nail. 

“An’ dat de way de ladies git man-cured? Now tek 
offer bout yard er dis toe-nail, kaser gotter be gwine.” 

Sal slipped off her shoe and exposed a stocking full of 
holes. The stocking was taken off with a jerk, and there 
was a big toe-nail that resembled a hawkbill. 

“Er clar ter goodniss, Miss Brown, er ain got no tools 
ter tek off dat nail. Us man-cure ottists ain fix up for 
toe-nails.” 

“Yer gwineter tek dat nail off ef her haster gitter han 
saw. Yer got yer sign up, an’ yer gotter do bisniss. Dat 
nail gotter come off er tol’ yer. Effer man-cure ottists 
wot yer call um do bisniss fur me deys sho gotter wuk.” 

Emma worked on the toe-nail. The scissor slipped 
and jabbed the foot. Up rose Sal with her shoe, and in 
less time than it takes to tell it she had whipped Emma 
into insensibility and gone, taking down the sign as she 
went. That sign will never go up again. 

THE UNWILLING WITNESS. 

The case was that of Willie Watson for disorderly 
conduct, in that he beat his wife. As in many cases of 
this kind, the wife repents overnight, and though she 


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has held up her right hand and sworn that she would tell 
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, she 
doesn’t do it every time. 

This makes it hard for the other witnesses. Naturally 
one woman will stick up for another woman, and if nec- 
essary lie for her, but if the wife is willing for her hus- 
band to beat her up and maul her, and deny it in court, 
then they think they shouldn’t be called on to say any- 
thing against him, and when called on they pretend as 
though they know nothing about the case. 

Willie’s wife, having no complaint to make against her 
husband, and the court being fully convinced that the hus- 
band beat up the wife, he attempts to draw it out of 
the witnesses. In this case, Mandy Holtzclaw was the 
star witness. 

“What about this case, Mandy?” 

“Who? Me?” 

“You heard me. What about this case?” 

“Wot er knows ’bout dis case? Doan knows nuffin 
’bout hit.” 

“You were there when it occurred, were you not ?” 

“Sur?” 

“You were there when the fuss was going on?” 

“Wot fuss, jedge?” 

“This disturbance between this man and his wife.” 

“Ef deys had any ’sturbment er dunno nuffin ’bout 
hit.” 

“Now, look here, Mandy, you were there, were you 
not?” 

“Cose er wuz dar! Doan dey lives ’jinin’ room ter 
me?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


195 


“Well, tell me what you saw and heard.” 

“Yer wants me ter tells yer wotter seed’n hyeerd?” 

“You heard what I said.” 

“Nevvy seed nuffin. Er wuz in mer room an’ dey 
wuz in dey room.” 

“Well, you heard something, didn’t you?” 

“Er hyeers ’em talkin’ in dair. Dey always er talkin’ 
in dair.” 

“What did you hear besides talking?” 

“Dey wuzzer jisser talkin’.” 

“Did you hear her say anything to him?” 

“Er hyeer ’im say sump’n, but Iser gwineter tell yer 
de trufe ; er wuzzent payin’ any tenshun ter wot he say.” 

“What did she say?” 

“Er tell yer, jedge, er wuzzent payin’ any tenshun. 
Dey wuz jisser talkin’.” 

“Hear any noise that was unusual in there?” 

“Hit wuz jiss lak hit always is. Dey wuzzer talk’n. 
Dey all de timer talkin’.” 

“After he hit her, didn’t she run into your room?” 

“Yer mean las’ night?” 

“Yes, last night. Didn’t she run into your room and 
ask you to go after the police?” 

“She all de timer cornin’ in mer room. Er doan pay 
no tenshun ter wot she do.” 

“If you don’t answer my questions, I am going to 
fine you for contempt of court. I am getting tired of 
such answers.” 

“Dunno wot yer wanter know, jedge.” 

“Did you see Willie here strike his wife last night?” 

“Ef he hitter er didn’t seed hit.” 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


'‘Did you hear him strike her?” 

“Ef he hitter er didn’t hyeer hit.” 

“Did you hear her fall oil the floor after he struck 
her?” 

“Er hyeerd sump’n fall, but er dunno ef hit wuz her?” 

“Did you hear her tell him not to strike her again ?” 

“She mouter saved hit, but er wuzzent payin’ er bitter 
tenshun.” 

“Did you hear her holler?” 

“Jedge, dat oomans all de timer hol’rin. She doan do 
nuffin but holler.” 

“What do you do?” 

“Wotter do?” 

“Yes, what do you do for a living?” 

“Wash’n i’on.” 

“This man any kin to you?” 

“He mer bruvver.” 

That was the reason she didn’t want to answer. An- 
other witness, who was evidently disgusted with the way 
Mandy lied, was asked to tell about the fuss between 
Willie and his wife. 

“Jedge, er is gwineter tell yer de trufe. Dis yer mans 
sho beat dat oomans. He hit her on de haid widder 
piece er scantl’n, an’ she run’d in dis Mandy’s room wid 
de blood jisser streamin’ down her face, an’ Mandy wipe 
hit off widder ap’n kaser lookin’ right atter. Dunno wot 
meks dese oomans kim up hyere ter de cote an’ teller lie 
fur er mans. Er ainter gwineter teller lie fur nunner 
dese mens, datter ain’t.” 

Willie was fined twenty-five dollars, but before the 
court adjourned the fine was paid by his wife and 
Mandy. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


197 


THE CARD PARTY. 

It was Gladys Jackson’s card party. Her mar was 
anxious that the party should be a brilliant event, and to 
give it a send-off she cooked the cake herself, she did, 
and it was norated around all Yamacraw that for baking 
cake Liza Jackson was no slouch. 

Gladys had issued her invites, being careful not to 
allow any one who had ever suffered on the chaingang to> 
be included in the list. She wanted her party to be a 
swell affair. 

They were seated around the tables in groups, the 
groups having been arranged by Liza, who wanted 
Gladys to be seated at the same table with Buckeye Bill, 
who had recently arrived from Jacksonville, where he 
had accumulated some wealth, and was a high-toned 
gent any way. 

“Dese kyerds sho run cuyus ter-night, Miss Gladys. 
Hit hearts er spades all de time, anner jiss know dey 
is di’mon’s in dat deck.” 

“Efyer gits hearts all de time, Mister Simmons, wot 
mek yer keer ef dey comes hearts all night,” said Gladys 
sweetly. 

“Dese ain’t de kiner hearts er wants, Miss Gladys,” 
said Buckeye Bill, cutting an eye in the direction of 
Gladys. 

“Wot mek yer doan play yer tenner di’mon’s on dat 
fo’-spot, Glad? Yer dun showed hit, now, an’ cose we 
gwineter git hit,” said Harelip Pete, who was fostering 
a~dislike to the Jacksonville man. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


m 

“No gentlemans gwineter tek yer ten, Miss Gladys,” 
said Buckeye Bill, with a quiet feel for his razor. 

“Dat ten all right, doan yer fret ’bout dat ten, kaser 
gwineter guv dat ten erway right now. Yer cotch hit, 
Mister Simmons.” 

Buckeye Bill was tickled out of his boots at this con- 
descension on the part of Miss Gladys. Harelip Pete 
was sore, sore on Buckeye Bill and was getting sore on 
Gladys. She had been accepting his presents of candy 
and nuts and raisins for some time, and for these he 
thought he was entitled to some consideration, but he 
now saw that the Jacksonville man occupied the center 
of the stage and caught the full glare of the limelight of 
the dark dreamy eyes of Gladys. 

“Yer needn’t deal me out’n er han’, Glad, kaser gwine 
home.” 

“Er hopes yer woont go, Pete, hit airly yit, anner 
wants yer ter stay an’ git some er mar’s cake, hit sho 
good.” 

“Naw, Iser gwine home, kase effer stay me’n dat yal- 
ler nigger fum Jackson-villes sho gwineter hitch.” 

“Ef dat tar-baby wanter have er rucus, he sho can 
git hit good’n strong,” said Buckeye Bill, rising from the 
table. 

Liza heard the commotion at the far table, and she 
rushed over to check the rough house she knew was com- 
ing. She caught Pete by the coat collar and yanked him 
around as if he had been a tub of clothes. 

“Yer orter be ershamer yerse’f ter rise san’ right 
hyere fo de cumpny. Yer aint got no raisin’, no how, an’ 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 199 

yer kin jiss tek yerse’f out’n dis housse, an 1 doan yer 
put yer foots in hit ergin, dat wot yer do.” 

“Lef him erlone, mar, he sicher baby dat Bill mout 
hut de po’ feller,” said Gladys sympathetically. 

“Who? Dat swimp fum Jackson-villes ! Lemme git 
ter ’im. Jiss gimme room, keep out’n de way, Miss 
Gladys, jis scatter yerse’f, Liza, kase dey sho izzer gwine- 
ter be sump’n doin’ hyere. Squar’ yerse’f, Mister Buck- 
eye Bill, an’ draw yer razzer.” 

Pete was prancing around with his hand on his hip 
pocket, and Bill pretended to be edging toward the door. 
The guests were crowding around, unwilling to lose the 
chance of seeing a row, especially if there was any 
chance for the Jacksonville negro to be done up. 

“Ef yer alls doan shet up an’ quit yer foolin’ er sho 
gwineter call de poleeces. Hit ammer shame datter lady 
kaint gi’er kyard party dout dar er fuss, an’ some low- 
down, triflin’ nigger risin’ san’ jiss kase er gentlemans 
comes ter see de young lady uv de house.” This from 
Gladys. 

“Er hopes Mister Haslit Pete will skuse me effer trod 
on he cawn. Er comes ter dis house fur er soshul gamer 
kyerds wid de ladies, anner aint fix fur no rucus. Ef 
Mister Haslit Pete will skuse me ter see ’im some uvver 
time w’enner fix, er sho will be bleeged ter ’im,” and 
Buckeye Bill bowed low. 

But Harelip Pete thought that this was the time of 
all times for the row. Some other time Buckeye Bill 
would be fixed proper, and he would stand no show. So 
he made a dash for Bill, and Gladys screamed. All 
thought it would soon be all over with Bill, as they knew 


200 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Pete had his razor and might use it on the unarmed Bill. 
But while Bill was unarmed, so far as weapons were 
concerned, he wasn’t a blacksmith for nothing, and as 
Pete came within range, he picked him up and threw 
him through the window, carrying the sash and all. 
Several ran out to see how badly hurt was Pete, but he 
was nowhere to be seen. He had run up against the 
wrong man. 

The police arrived shortly afterward, having been told 
by Pete of gambling going on, but all they found was a 
quiet party eating cake. 

THE DINNER HOUR. 

“ ’Possum up de gum stump, 

Coon he in de hollow ; 

Fotch ’im down, liT gal, 

Gi’ yer haffer dollar.” 

It was Singing Sam, and he was in his usual merry 
mood. The truck hands had knocked off work for the 
dinner hour, and were seated on the big platform, tin 
buckets between their knees, and eating their dinner. 
Sam had finished his bucket and was indulging in his 
favorite pastime of exercising his lungs with the old 
songs. Here is one that he sang with an easy swing to 
it that caught the crowd : 

“Wish er had er jug er rum, 

Sugar ber de pound, 

Gre’t big bowl ter po’ hit in, 

Anner spoon ter stir hit ’roun’ — 

LiT o I’ Liza Jane, liT oY Liza Jane.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


201 


“Fz er come down de new cut road, 

>>n’ she kim down de lane, 

D V jerry las’ wud er hyeerder say wuz — 

LiH ol’ Liza Jane — 

LiT ol’ Liza Jane, liT ol’ Liza Jane.” 

“Fur de luvver goodniss, Sam, shot dat mout’. Ef 
yer tu’n loose ernuvver um dem ol’ time hymns dar 
woon’t be no wuk dun diss sebe-nin’,” said Bill Howard. 

“Er seed in de paper whar de pres’dent gwineter kim 
ter Macon in de timer de fair, an’ dey gwineter git upper 
’possum supper so he kin eat ’possum, dat wot dey say,” 
said Hog- Eye Joe. 

“Ef dat so, den hit goodbye ’possum, kase der say 
Mister Taf’ bigg’n one er dese baler cottons. Ef dat 
mans gitter tas’er ’possum an’ taters, an’ some gravy 
anner kagger dis ni-bear, hit sho goodbye Isum, an’ we 
po’ niggers woont gitter smeller mo’ ’possum, tell yer 
dat,” observed Bill. 

“Wot mek yer say he er big mans! Cose he big 
mans. He de pres’dent. Mos’ any mans er big mans 
wot pres’dent. He kaint eat no mo’n me jiss kase he 
pres’dent. Wot de matter wid yer, mans?” said Sam. 

“Mister Taf’ he weigh mo’n dis baler cottons er tell 
yer! Dat wot dey tell me. W’en dey fix upper dish 
er ’possum fur ’im hit gotter be er mouty big ’possum, 
letter lone de taters an’ de gravy. Dey tells me dat 
j mans eater whole chick ’n fur he brekfus, sides er lotter 
sossidge, an’ ham an’ aigs, an’ battercakes, anner potter 
coffee. Dat wot dey tells me, er dunno nuffin ’bout hit 
merse’f.” Bill was always careful of his statements. 

“Who pay fur dat kiner brekfus ? He mus’ sho be er 


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rich mans ter gitter brekfus lak dat. Wot he do fur er 
livin’? He mus’ be one er dese money loaners,” said 
Sam. 

“Dat ainter bovrin’ me lak eatin’ all de ’possums w’en 
he comes. Yer know he ainter cornin’ ber hese’f, an’ he 
gwineter come widder gre’t big crowder dem Noo Yawk 
w’ite mans, an’ hit gwineter tek er sight er ’possums ter 
go roun’. Mer liT gal wot go ter school she reed me in 
de paper whar Mister Taf’ he come ter Atlanty an’ dey 
sot out ter git all de ’possums fur he dinner, an’ dey 
tell me, cose er dunno ef hit true, dat dey gits all de 
’possums fum all roun’ Allbenny an’ Valdoster, an’ dey 
lef ’ none fur seed. Dat bein’ de case, dar aint no mo’ 
’possums,” said Bill. 

“Dunno wot dey wants ter feed de mans on ’possums 
fur, no how. W’ite mans got no bisniss ter eat ’possum. 
De good Lawd med de ’possum fur de nigger. W’enner 
w’ite mans cotch er ’possum ber de tail de ’possum show 
he teefes; nigger cotch er ’possum ber de tail er ’pos- 
sum lay he haid down on de groun’ lak he wanter say, 
hyeer er iz ! Lettum gi’ de mans er baiter sossidge, an’ 
chitlin’s an’ hog-haid souse an’ cracklin’ braid an’ shorty 
cake. Dat wot de pres’dent oughter eat any how.” This 
from Knocknee Jim. 

“W’en yer say dat mans er cornin’?” asks one. 

“Timer de fair. Dey dun sont de invite. Gotter pic- 
shur uvver ’possum on de invite hangin’ ber de tail 
fummer ’simmon tree, jiss ready ter drap in de bag,” 
said Bill, whose daughter reads the papers to him. 

“Er tells yer wot we do, niggers fo dat time. Evvy 
one er us go ’possum huntin’ an’ cotch all de ’possums 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


203 


roun’ Macon an’ pen 'em up an’ den we gitter haid uv- 
vum. Dis yer bisniss ’bout de pres’dent eatin’ all de 
’possums doan soot dis chile.” This was merely a sug- 
gestion. 

“Dat hit! Yer sho tol’ de trufe dat time. Jiss you 
alls lay low an’ say miffin’, an’ wese kin sho ’em dat de 
nigger sho gwineter git he ’possums w’en de time comes. 
Who dis Mister Taf’ any way? Dat li’l’ gal er mines 
she reed dat he doan lak de nigger no how. Dem pub- 
likins dun say dey ti’ed er messin’ wid de nigger. Dey 
say dey save money ber letnum go, kase dey used ter 
haveter buy ’em. Dey didn’t buy dis chick’n ! Nevvy 
did seed de color er dey money. Doan yer all go tell 
hit, an’ w’en wese git thoo wid dem ’possums dar woont 
be er ’possum in de whole er Bibb county.” This was 
Bill. 

Then the whistle blew for work, and they gathered up 
their tin dinner buckets, and soon the heavy song of 
negroes at work was heard on the platform. 


LITTLEBIT. 

When Littlebit was in good health, or rather when 
she was able to be out in the yard or the street, she was 
always in some kind of meanness. She would steal, noth- 
ing valuable, but the little things that counted nothing, 
and yet it was stealing. A nickel or a dime, a pie, or 
even a loaf of bread came within her limits. She hung 
around other people’s houses and yards and watched for 
a chance to pick up something. 

But Littlebit was burning up with fever now, as she 


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lay on the dirty pallet on the floor of her grandmother’s 
shanty. She was lying there as a scrap of humanity, a 
black speck in the world. 

One night she overheard Big Dick and Sardine Sam 
talking. They were sitting on the doorsteps just outside 
the room, and they paid no attention to her. They were 
waiting for the grandmother to return to pay her for 
cooking their rations for the week just gone, and were 
utilizing the time in planning to break into old man Har- 
vey’s house and get some money they believed he had 
hidden in the house. It was said that this was a good- 
sized pile, the savings and scrapings of years. Littlebit 
had listened to every word, and never once did she move. 

She began to think over what she had heard. Old man 
Harvey ! He was that white man up there on the corner 
some distance away, and he had spoken so kindly to her 
once. She had stolen an apple from the barrel in front 
of his store, and he scolded her, then gave her two apples 
and told her never to steal again. It was a little thing 
for him to do, but she thought about it. He could have 
sent her to the chaingang for stealing that apple. Ac- 
cording to her code of morals, the stealing of an apple 
was all right, but to steal the old man’s money was all 
wrong. 

Her grandmother had not yet returned; and Littlebit 
crawled out of the back door and down the steps. Not 
until she stood up to walk did she find how weak she 
was. It was impossible to walk, but down on her knees 
she dropped and then to crawl. She chose the shady 
side of the fence, the shadows, that she might not be 
seen. There is no telling the amount of pains and bruises 


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205 


that child endured, crawling on hands and knees over 
the rough ground, but she minded them not. At last 
she reached the store and found it closed. Then she 
crawled around to the back entrance, for she knew the 
old man slept in a little room back of the store. She 
rapped on the door, but the sound of those little fingers 
on the door made no more noise than the patter of rain 
on the roof. She hunted around in the darkness and 
found a little rock, and with this she knocked on the 
door, and there came from within the usual question of 
“who’s there?” She told old man Harvey who she was, 
but he thought of the prospective purchase of a penny’s 
worth of candy, and he told her gruffly to go away. But 
she finally persuaded him to open the door. Then she 
told her errand. 

“Deys sho kill me ef deys fine out datter tol’ yer, but 
Dick an’ Sam is aimin’ ter buss in de sto’ an tek yer 
money wot dey sayes yer got stuck erway in yer room. 
Er comes ter tell yer so yer kin be fix fur um anner 
gwine back now.” 

There was something in her manner and the tone of 
her voice that caused the old man to take heed. And 
while he was finding another hiding place for his money 
and getting his pistol ready, the little black scrap was 
crawling back to her house. She managed to get back 
in without being noticed, and then upon the little pallet 
of rags she sank exhausted. 

Next morning brought the news that two negroes had 
broken in the store of old man Harvey on the corner, 
and that both were in the hospital with their wounds. 
As soon as they got well they would be taken to jail. 


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They had attempted to rob the old man, but he was 
watching for them, and as they entered the room he fired, i 
getting a good shot at both. 

Littlebit’s grandmother was astonished to find Mr. 
Harvey a visitor at her shack. He looked in at the door 
and saw Littlebit on the pallet. The fever and the ex- 
citement had been too much for her. And then came 
more surprise for the grandmother. The doctor came. 

“Is you de city doctor ?” she asked of the visitor. 

He was not, but he had been sent there by Mr. Har- 
vey to look after the girl. He left the medicine and 
when he went away she communed with herself: 

“Wot got inter oP mans Harvey? How come he corn- 
in’ ter mer house, an how come he sont dat doctor to 
seed LiTbit ? De good Lawd sho hyeer mer prar. Some 
niggers say de Lawd doan pay no tenshun ter us niggers 
kase we is black. But datter mouty good Lawd. He sho 
is. He put hit in de heart er dat w’ite mans ter come 
ter seed dat po’ li’l sick creeter, an’ ter sont de doctor, j 
Nunner dese city doctors, but one er dese sho nuff doc- 
tors lak de w’ite folkses has. De Lawd sho is good! 
Er gwineter git down on mer ol’ knees dis night an’ tell 
de Lawd datter mouty po’ han’ ter t’ank Him, butter dooz 
de besser kin.” 

And in due course of time Littlebit got well. Now 
and then she would timidly go to Harvey’s and he gave 
her an apple. 

One day she went to the store, and after the manner 
of her kind, she told him she was going to be ten years 
old on the next day. He told her to eat an apple and 
stay out on the sidewalk for a few minutes. Then the 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


207 


old storekeeper brought out a paper bag that was heavy 
with its contents. He told her to take the bag home and 
have a birthday party with her grandmother. When the 
bag was opened at home and it was found full of candy, 
apples, nuts, and such things, down on her knees went 
the old woman. 

“Oh de goodest good Lawd ! Yer is too good ter er oh 
oomans lak er is. Er ax yer ter mek mer liT gal well, 
an’ yer sont de doctor. Er ax yer ter be good ter er ol’ 
oomans, an’ now yer is sont all dis apple, all dis candy, 
all dese nuts, all dis owange, all dis cake, all dis reezins, 
soze mer liT gal, de po’ liT creetur, kin has er buffday 
potty. Yer sho is good ter me, an’ yer sho is good ter 
Li’l’bit. Er feels lakker jis kin hug yer, good Lawd, ef 
yer ’low er nigger lakker is ter dooz dat, but er sho dooz 
love yer. Er is benner mouty weekid nigger, but hit 
kase er didn’t knowed yer lakker knows yer now. Yer 
sho izzer good Lawd.” 

But Littlebit munched an apple and said nothing. She 
knew her life depended on her keeping a closed mouth. 
Dick and Sam were her uncles, and they were in jail 
waiting to go to the chaingang. 


THE LOVERS* QUARREL. 

Emma Davis, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, was car- 
rying a tremendous big box, supposed to have contained 
one Easter hat, and intended for a young lady on Col- 
lege street. 


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She met Charlie Thompson, a chauffeur, who was her 
steady visitor. Charlie pushed his goggles upward and 
halted her on the corner for a chat. 

“Wot yer got in dat big box, Miss Emma? Hit look 
bigger nuff fur er baler hay.” 

“Hit nuffin butter hat fur er w’ite oomans on College 
street. Wot mek yer didn’t comes ter seed me las’ night, 
Mister Thompson? Er hadder dream ’bout yer las’ 
night, er sho did.” 

“Yer sho gotter tell me ’bout dat dream.” 

“Er ainter gwineter, kase yer didn’t come ter seed me 
lak yer sayes yer wuzzer gwineter do. Er gwineter git 
me ernuvver sweetheart, efyer doan watch out. Er 
knows er heaper young mens dat wants ter come ter seed 
me, er sho do.” 

“Dat all right. Er buyed yer er mouty fine present 
yistiddy, butter ainter gwineter tell yer wot hit is now, 
kase yer woont tell me ’bout dat dream.” 

“Whar de present ? Effer tell yer de dream yer gwine- 
ter gi’ me de present?” 

“Cose er is. Ain’ dat wotter tellin’ yer?” 

“Well — yer ainter gwineter tell nobody, is yer? Cross 
yer heart, an’ tu’n roun’ an’ spit! All right, now yer 
ainter gwineter git mad w’en er tol’ yer?” 

“Hurry, gal, yer tekkin up too much time. De w’ite 
folkses gwineter git atter yer fur bein’ so long. Hurry 
up an’ tell me ’bout dat dream efyer gwineter tell me.” 

“Huh! Wotter kyeer fur wot de w’ite folkses say? 
Deys aint got nuffin ter do wid me. Yer ainter gwineter 
git mad wid me effer tell yer ’bout dat dream! Well, 
er dreams dat yer kiss me, er sho did.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


209 


‘‘Hush ! Sho nuff ? Is yer benner readin in de paper 
dat yer mussun kisser blon’ any mo’ ?” 

“Er ain’ no blon’, er izzer blunette.” 

“Nawyer ain’ no blunette, yer izzer merhogny blon’ 
dat wot yer is, anner ain tekkin’ no chainces on cotchin’ 
pirootiz, dat noo derzeze wot gwine roun’ now. Er yer 
wants ter git kiss, yer gotter git some uvver nigger ter 
do de kissin’ bisniss.” 

“Er tol* yer er wuz jisser dreamin’. Ain’ nobody ax 
yer ter kiss um datter knows uv. Yer too fresh, dat wot 
yer is. Er sho do ’spise er fresh nigger. Er wuz gwine- 
ter vite yer ter mer Easter buffday party, anner seed yer 
daid fuss now. Sence yer gotter chuffin’ dat kairsene ile 
kerridge anner ridin’ de w’ite folkses roun’ town in hit 
anner skeerin’ peoples ter deff wid dat hawn, yer mek out 
yer bettern anybody else. Er doan wants yer ter speak 
ter me ergin, Mister Thompson, yer ain’t git sense nuff 
ter git out’n er shower er rain. Er sho hates de groun’ 
yer walks on. Call me er merhogny blon’ ! Wot you is ? 
Tell me dat, yer low-down tar-baby. Jiss dar’ yer ter 
comes ter mer house ergin. Er tek up sump’n anner 
buss yer haid open. Dat wotter do ter yer, yer stinkin’ 
raskil.” 

> “Mer goodniss, chile, wot yer git so mad ’bout ? Kaint 
| yer tekker liT crackin’ lak dat? Yer knowed er wuz 
^jisser foolin’. Wot got in yer, dis lass gone week, no 
how? Seem lakker kain’ do nuffin ter soot yer! Yer 
git mad effier go wid Sallie Jones, an’ yer git mad effer 
kaint comes ter seed yer, an’ now yer git mad kaser call 
yer er herhogny blon’. Ner mine, er izzer cornin’ ter 
seed yer ter-night an’ fotch dat present, an’ den ef yer 


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is still mad, er gi’ de present ter Sallie, an’ yer knows 
er doan kyeer nuffin ’bout dat Sal Jones.” 

“Wot time yer cornin’?” 

“Atter supper some time, ef yer lemme, an’ yer lemme 
kiss yer.” 

“Yer mout cotch dat pi-rootiz, an’ den whar is yer?” 

“Doggone de pi-rootiz, hit ain’ kill nobody yit. But- 
ter muss be gwine. So long, be good, Miss Emma.” 

“So long. Effer kain’ be good er be kyeerful. Er 
izzer gwineter look fur yer jiss atter supper, Charlie, an’ 
— gi’ yer case er pi-rootiz.” 


SLOWFOOT SAL’S FIGHT. ] 

There ambled up from the mourner’s bench to 
take her place at the bar to be tried on the charge 1 

of being drunk and disorderly, a female figure, 1 

clothed in garments of varied hues that were shabby, 1 

and bearing the marks of long wear and contact 1 

with everything that would leave its mark upon them, i 
Her head was bandaged up with a soiled towel, and n 
this towel covered all but her nose and one eye. J 
This visible eye was bloodshotten and half closed, b 

She walked with a stick, and apparently with difficulty d 
and pain. It was evident that she was not at first recog- ai 
nized by the court. He gazed on that one eye, and the d; 
general contour of the figure, and then it dawned on him oi 
who the prisoner was. si 

“If mine eyes do not deceive me, I have before me » 
none other than Slowfoot Sal. Am I right in my con- bi 
elusion?” asked the court. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


211 


“Dunno bout yer ’elusion, but dis is Sal all right. 
Gawn on an sont me ter de gang dout all dat foolin’ ! Er 
feels bad.” 

“But you are due a trial first. I must hear the evi- 
dence. Perhaps you may prove not guilty.” 

“Er is sho guilty, ef dat wot yer wants ter knowed. 
Er buss de uvver oomans wide op’n anner dooz hit ergin 
efifer gitter chaince. How much yer gwineter gi’ me, 
jedge? Yer ainter gwineter hut mer feelins ef yer sont 
me ter de stock-cage tell Chrismus — better mek hit erbout 
two days atter Chrismus, jedge.” 

“What about this case, Mister Officer?” 

“We found Sal in Tybee after she had whipped out a 
houseful of other women. She was- drunk, your honor.” 

“Jedge, deys ain no use foolin’ ’bout no witnuss. Er 
kin tell yer de fuss an’ de lass uvvit. Er izzer bustid 
kermunity, jedge, butter got sense lak folks, anner jiss 
knows er is gwineter de stock-cage. Er sho wuz drunk. 
Kit doan mek no diffrunce whar er got de licker — 
’twarn’t nunner dis ni-bear wot mek yer foolish dout 
mekkin yer drunk, but de revrunt licker wot come fum 
Jacksons-villes. Er wuz gwine long ten’nin’ ter mer 
bisniss w’en dat uppity Emma Davis wot tote hats fum 
de milnerry sto’ ter folks, she twisser haid ter one side 
an’ tu’n upper nose w’enner pass by. Jedge, er knowed 
dat gal w’en she mar nevvy hadder ragger clo’es ter put 
on dat gal back, an’ she so po’ dat us niggers tekker 
sump’n t’eat, an’ kase she tote dem hats ter de w’ite 
wimmenses wot buyed um fum de milnerry sto’, she git 
biggity an’ t’ink she better’n us uvver niggers. Er sho 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


spize er gal wot furgit her raisin’, an’ dat wot she dun. 
Butter nevvy sayed nuffin, jiss let hit pass, but hit seem 
lak evvy time t'ink ’bout de way dat gal twisser haid ter 
one side er git madder an' madder. Er kep' on gwine 
long tell er meets up wid her mar anner pass’ler uvver 
wimmenses wot lives in Tybee — er lives in Yamacraw, 
jedge, anner sho glad uvvit — an' dey wuz fixin’ up ter 
gi' er orster supper fur de chu’ch. Er stop anner sayed 
how yer alls do dis mawnin’, jiss datter way. One er 
de wimmenses kiner letter wud slip out, but Emma Da- 
vises’ mar tu’n her back jiss soons she seed hit wuz me. 
Jedge, dat mo’n er kin stan’, an’ you knows yerse’f er 
kin stanner heap, kaser ben afo yer menyer time, but 
w’en dat oomans show mer her back atter all er dun fur 
her an’ dat gal she got, dat de limit. Er dun mad no 
how, an’ we’en she dun dat er sho furgit ’bout de cote 
an’ de stock-cage an’ de gang an* de jail an’ evvyt’ing 
but gittin’ eben wid dat oomans. Er seed she hadder 
crowd roun' her, butter wuzzunt stud’n 'bout no crowd. 
Ef de whole er Tybee ben dar, hit wuz jiss de same wid 
me den. Er lit on dat oomans lakker duck on a junebug, 
anner grabber han’holt in dat wool er hern anner gi’ 
hitter twiss. Ber dat time long-laigged Sue Tolliver, 
wot mek out she er pillow er de chu’ch she pick upper 
brick. Er seed her w’en she pick up de brick out’n de 
cornder er mer eye, but fo er kin dodge de lick dat brick 
hit me side de haid. Er jump loose fum Jane Davis, an- 
ner slam Sue in de mout’ jisses hod ez er kin slam her. 
Den dem uvver wimmenses deys tekker han’ in hit, an’ 
hit de trufe, jedge, er sho had mer han' full fur er liT 
w’ile. Er nevvy tek no aim, kaser knows deys wuz all 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


213 


ergin me, aimer shot out mer fisses, an w’enner git ti’ed 
er pick up dat brick dat Sue hit me on de haid wid anner 
flung dat. Dunno effer hit um, but ’bout dat time oi’ Sue 
gitter piecer i’on dat layin’ on de groun’, an’ she come 
down blam on mer haid. Hit feel lakker big house fall 
on me, an’ atter dat de fight wuz dun stop, kase der nex’ 
noos er knowed er wuz in dat box back dar, an’ hyere 
er iz afo yer, anner ain axin’ fur no mussy. All er wants 
yer ter dooz izter mek has’e an’ sont mer ter de stock- 
cage whar er kin lay down an’ kiner ease dis haid. Hit 
sho hut.” 

Having entered this plea of guilty, the court was mer- 
ciful and sent her to the stockade for forty-five days. 

“Dat all yer gwineter gimme, jedge?” 

But the judge was obdurate. 


THE DISAGREEMENT. 


Tuesday night the Rev. Jim Passmore was happy. 
Mary Jane Thomas had made him so by consenting to be 
his wife. It was arranged that the wedding should take 
place the following Sunday at the Baptist Church, and 
all the preliminaries agreed upon. Jim left Mary Jane’s 
home walking on air. Mary Jane, he thought, was no 
slouch of a woman, and didn’t she have money in the 
bank ? Didn’t the railroad pay her for an engine running 
over her husband? Of course Mary Jane had money in 
the bank, and if she wanted to pay the expenses of a 
church wedding, what did Jim care, just so she didn’t 
spend it all on such foolishness. 

Wednesday night he called according to promise. He 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


wanted to know how much Mary Jane had in bank. 
Fact is, he had been studying about this phase of the 
marriage all day. 

“Kim right in, Jim, er ben so flustud ter-day datter 
ain’t clean de house up lakker laks ter see hit w’en cump- 
ny kim, but jiss lissun at me! Youse ain’t cumpny no 
mo’, izyer, Jim?” 

“Yer is sho right ’bout dat, honeyjew. Wot yer ben- 
ner doin’ all day? Seem lak hit benner coon’s age sencer 
seed yer.” 

“Lor, chile, er benner stud’n ’bout de wedd’n. Look 
hyere, Jim, yer got ter sot de day upper liT kaser sho 
woont have time ter git ready ber Sunday night. Er is 
sho gotter lotter fixin’s ter git, an’ sides dat, er gotter 
baker cake. Er is gwineter gitter chick’n an’ some poke 
an’ some owanges an’ some reezins an’ some nuts, an’ 
wot yer tink er havin’ some soup, Jimmie — lemme calls 
yer Jimmie — yer know some folkses doan lak soup atter 
wed’n supper, kase dey say dey fill up on soup an’ ain’t 
got no room fur de chick’n. Wot yer say, Jimmie?” 

“Dat jiss wid you, honey. But hit look lak ter me dis- 
ser mouty heaper fuss ’bout gittin’ married. Cose you 
wimmen folkses know wotter do, but wot all dis gwineter 
cos’ yer, honey?” This was merely a feeler. 

“Shucks ! Er ain’ter stud’n ’bout wot hit gwineter cos / , 
kase we is gwineter git hitched lak de w’ite folkses git 
hitch. Cose wese ain’ter gwineter tek no wed’n trip ter 
Servanny an’ Noo Yawk, lak dat, but me’n you is sho 
gwineter let dem niggers in Tybee and Yamacraw see 
dat we ain’t no common niggers, ef we is cullud,” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


215 


“Yer sho mus’ have er oodlums er money in de bank, 
honey, ter spin hit lak yer gwineter on dis wed’n.” Then 
Jim listened with bated breath for a reply to this second 
feeler. 

“Er ain’t got no money in de bank, butter got fo’ dol- 
lars an’ fifteen cents wrop up in de cornder uv mer 
hankchuf datter save up, anner gwineter spin le las’ 
center dat jiss ter show dem Yamacraw niggers dat de 
widder Thomas ain’t no po’ folks, er sho is.” 

Jim was silent. Four dollars and fifteen cents the en- 
tire fortune, and all of that to vanish the first night ! 

“Mary Jane.” 

“Jimmie.” 

“Me’n you gitt’n too ol’ ter have all dem fancy wed’n. 
Hit’ll do fur some er dese young bucks an’ gals, but yer 
furgits dat we is ol’ an’ kase we ol’ dat no reezin’ we got- 
ter be foolish.” 

“Hit my money datter spinnin’, Jimmie.” 

“Dat so, but hitter mouty li’l’ money, mouty liT, an’ 
de timer cornin’ w’en dat li’l’ money kim in mouty handy. 
Yer furgit dat yer gittin’ ol’. How ol’ izyer, anyhow, 
Mary Jane?” 

“Hower knows how ol’ er iz? Lige used ter say 
datter wuz gwine on — butter dun furgit now. Wot yer 
wants ter know dat fur, Jimmie?” 

“Jiss kase. Yer know er ain’t no spring chick’n mer- 
se’f, anner feel mer age er cropin’ on me mouty fas’. 
Seem lakker gitt’n ol’er an’ ol’er evvy day. Effer keeps 
on er doan rickin er live mo’n er year mo’ no how. De 
doctor say sump’n de matter wid mer liver, er furgit 
wot he say de matter wid hit, sump’n lak ralgy er de 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


liver, an’ he say er niout live er year anner mout live two 
year, he dunno.” 

“Dat noos ter me, Bruvver Passmo’. Er benner hyeer- 
in’ ’bout yer ben ailin’, an’ dat yer mouty nigh daid, but 
yer knows how some er dese niggers talk. Izyer feelin’ 
po’ly ter-night, Bruvver Passmo’?” 

“Er sho is, Sister Thomas. Dat ralgy cropin’ up on 
mer liver jiss diss minit. Spec er better be gwine. Effer 
weller nuff spec er seed yer at chu’ch Sunday night.” 

“Effer kin git Mister Jones, wot live in tuvver room er 
de house, ter go wid me, spec er’ll be dar.” 

“Effer doan seed yer at de chu’ch, mebbe er seed yer 
some time.” 

“Ain’t dat de trufe. Good night, Bruvver Passmo’, yer 
mus’ kim ter see me ergin some time.” 

“Effer gits well er dis ralgy er de liver. So long, Sis- 
ter Thomas.” 

“So long, Bruvver Passmo’.” 

And thus ended love’s young dream. Jim chuckled as 
he went to his boarding house in the darkness of the 
night, and Mary Jane fell in her rocking chair and had 
satisfaction in telling herself what she thought of that 
low-down, trifling scoundrel, the Rev. Jim Passmore. 


WHAT THE NURSES SAID. 

A group of nurses on one of the little parks of the 
city. About them are cabs and carriages, each contain- 
ing fine specimens of the hope of the nation. Bright 
eyes, chubby fists, dimples, musical goo-goos, and all 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


217 


that. It is a blessing that the little fellows are good- 
natured and apparently in good health, for now they must 
take care of themselves. The sun may shine in their 
faces and the flies light and bite, the nurses have now 
dismissed them from their minds. 

“Look lak ter me dat de w’ite wimmens quit tennin’ 
ter dey babies any mo’. De w’ite oomans datter nuss fur 
she say tek dat chile out’n mer sight, fur heb’n sake, hit 
sho do love ter cry, anner jiss kain’t stan’ fur hit, an’ she 
say, oh, mer po’ narves !” This from one. 

“Er jiss wush yer kin hyeer dat oomans datter nuss 
fur. She doan say nuffin ’bout her narves, but she gotter 
haid on her. Time she hit de flo’ in de mawnin w’en 
she git up she say oh, mer po’ haid, an’ hit oh, mer po’ 
haid all day long tell de afternoon. Den she dress up lak 
she gwine ter chu’ch an’ she santer out down town, an’ 
ef yer kin seed her she laughin’ an’ ca’ain on lak she 
wuz atter buffday party. An’ dar me er lookin’ atter dat 
; baby all de time! She done furgit all ’bout dat baby.” 
: This from another. 

i “De w’ite oomans datter nuss fur she dunno dat she 
: gotter baby. See dat chile dar? Dat chile muvver ain’ 

I had dat baby in her oms sence some day las’ week, an’ 
dat de trufe. Yistiddy she ax me how de baby git erlong. 
Er say, hit ben mouty puny Friday, but hit better now. 
She say, wot yer do fur hit, Marfy ? Er say er gi’ hitter 
dose er pairgoric an’ six draps er lodnum, an’ hit sorter 
, pick up atter he wake up. She say, yer mus’ lemme know 
ef hit git too sick. Er say yassum, but you knows er 
t ain’ter gwineter fool wid dat oomans. All she kyeer 
| ’bout is ter squoze in dat noo umpi’ gowns dat deys izzer 




218 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


showin’ deysevves off in now, an’ she ain’ stud’n ’bout 
no baby.” This from another. 

“De w’ite wimmens er dese days ain’ no mo lak de 
w’ite wimmens w’enner wuzzer gal dan nuffin ’t’all. Hit- 
ter scan’le de way dese wimmens ack wid dey chilluns. 
Hit sho is. Dar wuz Miz Martin datter nuss all de chil- 
luns. Doan kyeer wot come dem babies sleep in dey 
muvver’s oms evvy night wot come. Fuss t’ing she dooz 
in de mawnin she wash dat chile face an’ put on hit clo’es ! 
ber her lone se’f. Er hyeer her say many time, Maria, 
you izzer mouty good nuss anner t’inker sight er yer, but 
deys ain’ nobody gwineter put on mer chile clo’es but he 
muvver. An’ de good Lawd dun quit mekkin better wim- 
mens dan Miz Martin long timer go. An’ she feed dat 
chile herse’f. An’ hit nevvy go out’n her sight all day 
long cep’n she lemme tek hit out ter gitter li’P fresh air, ; 
an’ we’en she come back de fuss t’ing she dooz fo she tek 
off her clo’es she tek dat chile an’ she zammin hit good ; 
ter see effit all right. Den she tek off her Sundy-go-ter- 
meetin’ duds an’ finery and she tek dat chile in her lap ! 
an’ she play wid hit er long time w’ile she coolin’ off 
anner ressin. Dese days er muvver ain’ got time ter play [ 
wid de baby, sides dat hit look so foolish fur er gre’t big 
oomans ter play widder liT bitty baby. Folks laugh atter, 
she say.” This observation from an old-timer. 

“Wot yer riccon mekkum do dat way, An’ Maria?” 
asked one of the listeners. 

“How er knows, honey? Yer knows dey ain’ nuffin 
lak dey used ter be. De time change, an’ de wul change. 
Cose he peoples change, too. Er is sho sorry fur some er 
dese yer w’ite wimmens wot got babies. W’en dese wim- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


219 


mens die an’ git ter heb’n, ef days git dar, dey ain’ter 
gwineter know dey own chillun,” said Maria. Then after 
a pause, she continued : “Dar wuz one er dese noo time 
wimmens datter wuzzer nussin fur datter baby died. De 
oomans nevvy did kyeer nuffin fur de baby no how, an’ 
she ’low de po’ chile ter git sick, an’ w’enner teller dat de 
chile oughter have er doctor she say, go ’long an’ gi’ de 
chile some er dot smoovin’ syrup an’ put hit ter baid! 
Cose de chile git wuss’n wuss, but de oomans she traipsed 
off ter er party. Dat night de chile go daid in dese berry 
oms, an’ me er doin’ evvyt’ing er knows how ter mek de 
chile well. W’en dat oomans corned home fum de party, 
an’ she fine out de chile daid, she say, er is sho sorry. 
Den she ax me ef de chile suffer much when hit die, an’ 
she wunner ef she gotter go in black.” 

, “Well, er gotter be gwine, kaser gwine ter er dance 
: ter-night anner gwineter git dis brat ter baid jisses 
1 quicks er kin,” and one nurse wheeled her crying baby 
■ away. 

) One by one they left, some of the babies asleep and 
E some crying over the bites of flies and insects, and all of 
j them in a bad humor. 




A CHANCE MEETING. 


They met at the market yesterday morning, and it was 
evident to those within hearing distance that they had 
1 not seen each other for some time. 

' “W’y, how der dooz, Miz Powell! Whar de namer 

r goodniss yer ben all dis time ? Er ain’ seed yer sence dat 
time us went ter de babtisin’!” 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Look hyere, ain’ dat Sukey Harris ?” 

“W’y, Miz Powell, yer dunno Becky Martin ? Er med 
sho yer knows ol’ Becky Martin.” 

“Wot, dis Becky Martin wot useter lives in Putmon 
county? Well, er do declar! An’ dis Becky Martin! 
Go way, chile, yer foolin’ me! Dis ain’ no Becky Mar- 
tin ! De lass timer seed yer hit wuz de time dat yer par 
git marrit ter dat succun wife. She yer step mar. Whar 
she now, Becky?” 

“She daid too long ter talk ’bout. Par marrit ter nuv- 
ver oomans now.” 

“Fur de lan’ sake! Yer par marrit ter er nuvver oom- 
ans ? Ef dat doan beat mer time. Whar he now ?” 

“He wukkin’ down ter de kumpress rollin’ cotton.” 

“Is datter fac’? Er ain seed dat mans Bill Martin so 
long er dun furgit how he look. Whar yer Aunt Mary?” 

“She daid. Yer knows mer Aunt Hattie?” 

“Wot, dat oomans wot uster be kiner squinch-eye ?” 

“She de very one. She daid too.” 

“Weller do declar! Yer doan tell me dat! Who livin’ 
now sides you an’ yer par?” 

“Ain’ nunner um livin’ now sides me’n par. We de 
onliest ones. Is yer livin’ in Macon now?” 

“Dat wot deys call hit, but hitter mouty po’ livin’, 
evvyt’ing dun riz so. Seed dat chick’n ? Er haster paid 
forty cent fur dat ol’ hen. Yer kain’t git nuffin but ol’ 
tunnups ter bile wid meat, an’ meat so high mer ol’ mans 
say he gwineter stop eatin’ meat no how. How yer par 
look, Becky?” 

“Cep’n he ain’ got but one eye, he lookin’ jiss lak he 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


221 


always look ter me. He er mouty good par. He tuck 
kyeer er me atter mer ol’ mans rund erway fum me.” 

“How come yer name Becky Martin, an’ yer ben mar- 
rit?” 

“Er gotter voce fum him, anner tuck back mer gal 
name, dat how come.” 

“Ain’ dat de trufe! Fuss noos yer knowed yer is 
benner gittin’ marrit ergin. Yer too young ter go thoo 
life douter oh mans. Whar yer livin’, Becky?” 

“Us lives in Yamacraw, ter de fur een er Dog Alley.” 

“Wot de namer Gawd yer lives in Dog Alley fur? 
Heap better alleys dan dat oh Dog Alley. Is dem spec- 
terbul peoples wot live in dat alley?” 

“Dey sho is. Dey is some mouty fine peoples wot live 
in Dog Alley. Par say ef ’twarn’t fur dat ol’ Jim Hug- 
gins, deys is ez good peoples in Dog Alley ez wot lives 
on College street.” 

“Wot yer par gotter ’gin Jim?” 

“Er dunno. He say Jim ben ter de chaingang fur 
stealin’ er mule.” 

“Datter pime blank lie! Jim Huggins is mer own dear 
bruvver, an’ he ain’ nevvy ben ter no chaingang. Doan 
yer say datter ’gin, ef yer dooz me’n you gwineter hitch 
right den! Er tol’ Jim he git mix up wid all kiner 
peoples ber stayin’ in dat alley. Now er knows hit!” 

“Look hyere, Dilsie Powell, doan yer sayed dat us all 
kiner peoples! Er jiss soons crawl on yer nek ez eat. 
Who you? Par sayed dat deys rund yer way fum Put- 
mon county kase yer steal some money fum de w’ite 
folks. Doan yer talk ter me ’bout all kiner peoples, yer 
low-down trash!” 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Er gwineter cotch yer some time w’en deys ain’ no 
poleeces lookin', anner sho gwineter beat yer haid ter er 
jelly, yer slob-foot heffer!” 

“Come on, come on, yer neen’t wait fur no poleeces! 
Er ainter skyeerder no poleeces ! Timer hit yer one lick 
side de haid, yer ain’ter wants no poleeces. Deys gwine- 
ter tek yer ter de hosspistol, dar whar deys is gwineter 
tek you, yer triflin’ she-buzzard ! Come talkin’ ’bout me’n 
mer par all kiner peoples! Who you? Tell me dat. 
Hitter good t’ing er lef mer razzer ter home. Dey sho 
would be er scrimmidge right hyere fo all dese peoples, 
an’ all dem poleeces right yanner ter de city hall. Er 
gwineter tell par soons er git home. Yer jiss tek yerse’f 
way fum hyere dis minnit fo er git mer mad up, dat wot 
yer dooz.” 

Miz Powell evidently thought a locality within hailing 
distance of the police station an inappropriate place for 
a fight, and she moved of! from the market. Becky 
folded her arms and watched her going away. 

“Er sho spizer country nigger wot comes ter town an’ 
gitter livin’ up dar on College street, an’ mek out deys 
too good ter soshiate wid dem good onnist niggers wot 
lives in Dog Alley. Deys lakker heaper w’ite peoples 
wotter knowed. Deys cames hyere po’s er mule, an’ 
atter mekker liT money deys dun furgit deys po’ kin 
as dem peoples wot heap better’n deys evvy dar’d ter be. 
Dem de kiner peoples er sho spize!” 

And she picked up her basket and wandered off down 
the street, and communing with herself, oblivious to all 
else. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


223 


THE VAGS. 

Two little negro boys were before the police court the 
other day on the charge of beating their way on one of 
the trains coming into Macon. This called to the mind 
of the old reporter an incident of about twenty-five years 
ago, when the passenger depot of the Southern, then the 
In fact, it was then a combined freight and passenger 
E. T. & V., was where the freight house stands to-day. 
depot. 

Two little negroes were on a freight train beating their 
way to Macon, after having run away from home and 
staying until the pangs of hunger in a strange town 
forced them to come back. This they tried to do by steal- 
ing a ride. Somewhere beyond the cemetery there was 
an accident of some kind, and both the boys had their 
legs cut off. They were brought to Macon and laid on 
the floor of the depot until they could be cared for. Tour- 
niquets had been provided to stop the bleeding, and this, 
with the shock, had benumbed their limbs, and they 
were for the time being without pain. 

There was no light in the office where the boys were 
lying, on opposite sides of the room, and the old reporter 
heard their talk. 

“Old Sporty, is you over dar?” 

“Yeh, hyere er is. Say, Pinchy, how many laigs yer 
got ?” 

“Got two laigs, er cose! Wot yer ax dat fur?” 

“Kaser ain’ got nun, but hit sho feel lakker got two, 


224 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


butter dun seed mer stumps. Er sho ain’ got no laigs. 
De railrode dun cuttum off.” 

“Er sho sorry fur yer, Sporty. How yer gwineter 
walk ef yer ain’^got no laigs ? Ef yer ain’ got but one laig 
yer kin walk widder crutch, but wot gooder crutch 
gwineter dooz yer ef yer ain’ got no laigs ’t’all ?” 

“Er ain’ stud’n ’bout dat, now. Er sho is hongry. 
How come deys doan sont wud ter de folks so deys kin 
come an’ tekkus home?” 

“Deys waitin’ on de doctor, butter dunno wot de doc- 
tor kin dooz now ef yer dun loss yer laigs. Dese doctors 
mouty poky no how.” 

All during this time Pinchy had been trying to get his 
hands down to his legs, but his arms had been either 
broken or crushed, and were painful to move. He finally 
succeeded, and made the discovery that he, too, was 
minus his legs. 

“Weller ber doggone ! Ef bofe mer laigs ain’ gone 
jiss lak yer is. Ain’ dat funny? Hit feels jiss lakker got 
two laigs. Er kin sho wuk mer toes, anner ain’ got no 
toes ! Seed ef yer kin wuk yer toes, Sporty !” 

“Deys wuk all right! How come yer kin wuk yer 
toes an’ yer ain’ got no laigs? Dat sho er noo one on 
me.” 

“Hit look lak us ain’ gwineter dooz much walkin’ no 
mo’, Sporty. Us sho inner debbul uvver fix. Er dun 
wid railrodes cep’n er git money ter paid fur de ride. 
Er sho is hongry.” 

The two unfortunates talked on. Then Pinchy started 
to sing, and out from the depot at i o’clock in the cool 
morning came in boyish treble “In the Sweet Bye and 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


225 


Bye.” There was a plaintive note in the voice as the 
song came out of the stillness of that dark night. The 
depot was deserted by the railroad men save the watch- 
man, and there was something in that song from the little 
i negro that caused him to bare his head and look upward 
at the stars. The old reporter, used to looking at things 
in a callous way, felt curious. Then he shook himself to- 
gether and wandered down the track to catch a glimpse 
of the train from the wreck he had been waiting for. 
But as far up the track he walked there floated the sound 
of the song, growing sweeter and sweeter in the distance. 
The song, even though it came from the lips of a little 
vagrant negro boy, who was singing only to while away 
the time that was dragging, touched the old reporter’s 
heart. Some how, some way, there was a weird sweet- 
ness in it, and long after it had ceased the sound of it 
lingered in his ears. 

Then from far up the road came the blow of the 
whistle. Then the bright eye of the locomotive, and then 
the train with the news of the accident. The conductor 
and his crew hopped off the train with their lanterns and 
i went scurrying about with their duties. The conductor 
; asked after the two little negroes who were hurt, and 
' the watchman directed him to the depot office. The light 
from the lanterns was flashed on them as they lay upon 
the floor. 

Sporty and Pinchy were dead! 

They had passed into the great beyond, into “The 
Sweet Bye and Bye.” 


226 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


THE PRESIDENT’S BREAKFAST. 

As soon as the draymen drove up to the usual place 
yesterday and began the attack on their dinner buckets, 
they opened up with their daily line of talk. 

“Er clar ter goodniss, mens, er sho feel lakker eatin’ 
mouty po’ grub fur dinner. Nuffin doan tas’e lak hit use- 
ter. Menyer time er thought dar wuzzent anything 
sweeter dan de co’n braid an’ de fried meat de ol’ oomans 
put in de buckit, wid some peas now’n den anner tater, 
but dat tas’e dun gone. Hit fur ways gone.” 

“Wot de matter wid yer, Bill? Fur de namer Gawd 
yer musser loss yer mine. Dis yer co’n braid’n meat 
tas’e mouty good ter me. Cose ’tain’t no ainjil cake an’ 
merniller ice cream, but hit good grub, an’ dat wotter 
wukkin’ mans gotter eat ef he specs ter toter sacker flour 
an’ sich ter he dray. Wot got in yer ter talk lak dat?” 

“Mer li’l’ gal reed me in de paper wot Jedge Bartlett 
gwineter gi’ de pres’dent fur he brekfuss w’en he come 
ter Macon. Eh-eh-eh-um ! Ef de pres’dent eat all dat 
brekfuss dat mans gwineter die, doan kyeer how big he 
is. Hit soun’ mo’ lak dinner dan brekfuss no how.” 

“Wot Jedge Bartlett gwineter gi’ him. Bill?” 

“Hit in de paper. He stot off widder big disher birds. 
Dat ter kiner gi’ him er appertite. Den he brung inner 
big disher sossidge, nunner dis hyere winny-wusses, but 
dem kine wot deys mek over yanner in Jones county 
wot most ez bigs yer om, an’ de mo’ yer fry um de bigger 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 227 

deys git. Den he brung in er disher country ham, an’ 
evvy slice gotter aig on hit ” 

“Look hyere, Bill, ef yer is got anything ergin us, spit 
hit out right now, fo yer go any fuvver. Us ain’ ben 
doin’ nuffin ter yer, an’ hyere yer is tellin’ wot de pres’- 
dent gwineter eat, all dem birds an’ dem sossidge, an’ dem 
ham an aigs, an’ hyere us is gnawin’ on co’n braid anner 
piecer w’ite meat anner smidgin er peas. Hit er shame 
ter dooz us dat way, an us ain’ dun nuffin ter yer. Datter 
low-down trick, hit sho is.” 

“Er wuz jiss tellin’ yer wot yer ax me. Shot yer 
mout’ an ” 

“How yer spec us ter shot our mout’s an’ us tryin’ ter 
eat de grub us got fur dinner ! Go on an’ tell de ress.” 

“Didder tell yer ’bout de ham an’ de aigs? Den dey 
] izzer big disher hawmny fur de red gravy fum de ham. 

| An’ ” 

“Yer knows de pres’dent ain’ter gwineter eat any er 
dat hawmny ef he totch dem birds an’ dem sossidge an’ 
dem ham ! He ain’ got no room fur any hawmny ; but go 
on. 

“Den come er big disher fried chick’n ” 

“Hoi’ on, Bill, yer li’l’ gal er mouty good reeder, an’ us 
spec she tell de trufe, but any mans wid jiss common 
sense knowed dat deys ain’ no mans big nuff ter eat all 
wot yer ben callin’ off, let lone dat fried chick’n. W’y, 
mans, doan kyeer how bigger mans de pres’dent is, he 
buss op’n fo dat disher fried chick’n come ter de table.” 

“Ner mine bout he buss’n op’n, dat he funerul. Lem- 
tne tell yer all wot dey is gwineter gi’ him fur brekfuss. 


228 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Den deys fotch in er big disher fried taters, dem big 
yaller yams, all slice up ” 

“Ef yer doan shot yer mout’ er sho gwineter pick up- 
per brick an’ buss yer brains out ! Yer sho ought ter be 
shamer yerse’f ter be talkin’ dat way w’en us got nuffin 
but co’n braid’n meat fur dinner! Yer ack lakker ij jit, 
yer sho dooz.” 

“An’ atter dat deys brung in ernuvver big disher fried 
chick’n ” 

“Fur de lanner Goshun! How big dat Mister Taf?” 

“W’y doan yer let de mans lone, Jim? How come yer 
doan let Bill tell wot de mans gwineter eat fur brekfuss ? 
Mister Taf’ bigs de whole Noo Nited States, dat wot deys 
tell me, an’ dat liT puny brekfuss Jedge Bartlett gwine- 
ter gi’ him ain’ gwineter hut him. Yer ought ter seed 
de dinner dat mans kin eat. Hitter scannle !” 

“Den come de cawfee an’ de cream an’ de milk.” 

“Dat all?” 

“Mer goodniss, mans, whar is dey anything else ter 
git? He dun eat mo’ rashuns dan ben ter mer house 
sence me’n de ol’ oomans fuss got marrit. W’enner mans 
eater brekfuss lak dat he doan want no dinner. He doan 
wants nuffin tell de nex’ time fur brekfuss.” 

“Hit mouty good ter be a pres’dent,” said Henry. 

“Hit sho is, butter spec dey is menyer time de pres’- 
dent willin’ ter gi’ up all dem fine brekfuss jiss ter be lak 
us. ’Tain’t all de time dat dem peoples wot rich, an’ wot 
kin git deys pitchers in de paper, an’ rid inner private 
cyar an’ all dat, wot kin eater brekfuss lak dat on counter 
day po’ stummick, an’ dem wot kin eat urn kain’t lay 
down on deys baid an gitter good night’s sleep on counter 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


229 


stud’n ’bout sump’n deys gotter dooz in de mavvnin. Us 
doan knowed hit, but us heap mo’ happy den all de 
pres’dents an rich menses.” 

“Dat sho am de trufe, ef yer evvy tol’ hit !” 

The dinner hour was over, and the draymen dispersed, 
their hunger appeased, and without a care in the world. 


A WEDDING IN TYBEE. 

It had been norated around that Jack Jackson, of Jack- 
sonville, was to be married to Eliza Ridley, at the home 
of her mother, on Division street, by the Rev. Wall-Eye 
Thomas, and that it was to be a swell affair, and that 
presents were expected. 

Eliza’s mother had been busy for a week or more get- 
ting things in readiness. Eliza looked after the trousseau, 
while her mother attended to the wedding feast, the only 
suggestion coming from Eliza was that a frosted cake 
should be baked for the 'bridesmaids, and in that cake 
must be a gold ring. It was the scheme to cut the cake 
after the wedding ceremony into as many slices as there 
were bridesmaids, and the bridesmaid falling heir to the 
slice containing the ring was to be declared the first to 
marry. Eliza furnished the ring and her mother the 
cake. 

On the night of the marriage there was a large assem- 
blage. The house was entirely too small to contain all 
who wanted to be there, and the overflow filled the doors, 
windows and the yard. The men occupied the yard 
and smoked and otherwise amused themselves, but the 


230 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


women kept close to the house, all wanting to get a 
glimpse of the bride. 

“Whar yer reckin Liza git all dat money ter buyed 
dem clo’es fum?” asked Whispering Annie, who had 
caught a glimpse of Eliza through the window. 

“Whar she git dat money? Datter smot gal. She 
wuk fur hit, an’ she benner savin’ hit up, dat how she 
got hit,” said a buxom matron whom Whispering Annie 
didn’t know. 

“Look hyere, oomans, doan yer talk ter me datter way. 
Ef yer dooz er gwineter buss yer one in the mout’, dat 
wotter gwineter dooz. Er jiss ax yer whar she git de 
money. Dat all er dun, an’ hyere yer come shootin’ off 
yer lip ! Er doan stan fur no foolin’ widder Tybee oom- 
ans, er tell yer dat, fo yer git any fuvver !” Whispering 
Annie was wrathy. 

“Er knowed whar all dat money come fum,” said a 
childish voice ; “her par sont hit ter her fum Servanny.” 

“Shet yer mout’, Li’l’bit, who ax yer whar she got hit ?” 
said Paralee Davis. 

“Wot her par doing in Servanny, an he gal gittin’ 
marrit? Er ain’ got no spec fur er mans wot let he 
daughter git marrit an’ not be ter de weddin’,” said 
Annie. 

“He on de gang,” said Littlebit, the orphan. 

“Er thought hit mouter ben sump’n lak dat, but hyere 
deys is gwineter stan’ fo de preacher. Alls yer peoples 
out dar keep still now, an’ so wese kin hyeer hit all.” 

By means of the door and the windows they saw the 
ceremony performed and the groom kiss the bride. 

“Ef dat mans wuzter smack me datter way er sho 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


231 


tek upper cheer anner buss him wide op’n,” said one of 
the lookers-on. 

Then came the cutting of the frosted cake. Those on 
the outside leaned as far forward as they could. They 
knew what the cutting of the cake meant, and it was 
the best part of the wedding. They wanted to see the 
fun of the happy bridesmaid as she received the lucky 
slice. But the crowd was too great on the inside, there 
being scarcely breathing room, and they had to be con- 
tent with listening. From within and over the heads of 
the insiders they heard: 

“Whar yer put date cake, mar?” This was Eliza. 

“Hit sottin’ dar in de pantry whar hit ben all de time ! 

; Yer sho flustered sose yer kain’t seed nuffln. Git out’n 
de way an’ lemme git dat cake.” An interval of five 
minutes here elapses. Eliza’s mother is looking for the 
cake. 

“Some er you niggers dun steal dat cake ! Er sot dat 
cake in dat pantry yistiddy mer lone se’f, kaser seed hit 
dar on de she’f. Hit sho izzer shame dat yer kain’t sot 
nuffin do cep’n some er dese Yamacraw niggers comes 
hyere and steal hit!” 

“Now, mer berluvvid sister, doan ’low yer anger pash- 
uns ter rise on dis suspicious kasion. Be carm, mer sis- 
ter, be carm.” This was the beloved pastor who had tied 
the knot. 

But the commotion became general. The bridesmaids 
were of the opinion that there had been no cake, and that 
it was a fake. This opinion once expressed became gen- 
eral, and there was a good prospect for a row. Eliza 
and her mar were finally accused of having had no cake, 


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and that the promise of it was merely a ruse to get as 
many presents as possible. The more they talked the 
more convinced they were that there was no cake, and 
the wedding that was intended to be a swell social affair 
broke up in the biggest kind of a row. After it was all 
over and the guests were leaving, now fully convinced 
that there was no cake with a gold ring in it, LiTbit 
slipped a newspaper package in the hands of Whispering 
Annie with : 

“Er save dis fur yer. Er eat so much er dat cake dat- 
ter mouty nigh buss op’n, anner swaller sump’n hod 
lak, anner doan wants no mo’ cake inner long time. ,, 

Littlebit had stolen the cake and swallowed the gold 
ring. \ 


A FRIEND IN COURT. 

When the clerk called out ‘‘Sam Bowman, drunk,” a 
little, sawed-off negro, his face so black that it shone, 
arose from the mourner’s bench and yelled out: 

“Hyere me — hyere I is.” 

Then he shambled up to the prisoners’ bar, and, placing 
his elbows on the railing, looked first at the judge and 
then at the officer who was being sworn. 

“Jedge, ’tain’t no use fur de poleeces ter swar hit, I 
sho wuz drunk, an’ ef ” 

“What about the case, Mister Officer?” asked the 
court. 

“Jedge, lemme tell hit teryer fuss ” 

“Will you keep quiet?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


233 


“Yassur, yassur, but, jedge, effer dat poleeces tell hit 
ter yer fuss, dis nigger am sho gone, but ef ” 

“Keep quiet!” 

“Yassur, but jiss lemme ” 

“If you speak again, I’ll fine you five dollars for con- 
tempt of court.” 

“Yassur, yassur ; but ” 

A frown on the face of the court stopped him short, 
but he fidgeted. 

The officer told how he found Sam on Saturday night 
on Fourth street, howling drunk, and singing at the top 
of his voice: 

“Sal’s in de gyarden er siftin’ san’, 

An’ Janes in de pyarlor wid de hog-eyed man.” 

The mention of this song carried the court back to the 
days of the long ago, when as a child he had heard that 
old song sung by the negroes on the old plantation. In- 
stantly he knew that he had a country negro to deal with, 
land that he must make allowances, for to fine him for 
i contempt of court, no matter how much he interrupted, 
lit would be an offense against his ancestry, for this same 
lold negro would have given his life for any one of them. 
With his heart softened, the court told Sam to tell why 
'it was he got drunk. 

“Kinner speak now, jedge? Git me straight now, 
young marster, lemme stot in de furrow right — dunno 
inuffin ’bout dishyer cote bizniss, an’ de cuntent bizniss, 
ian’ de Lawd knowser doan want no mo’er dat hole in 
dar, ef dat wotcher mean by de cuntent pot — no, sar. 


234 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


’Bout me gittin’ drunk, young marster, all I know is dat 
w’enner gits off’n de Dublin train dar wuzzer mans at 
de depot, an’ he say, izyer gwine ter er hotel? jisso. I 
say, no, but efyer gotter fuss-class bo’din’ house whar I 
kin gitter decen’ mealer vittles anner bed, Ise widyer. 
He say, I knows de fustist class bo’din’ house in dis city 
an’ hit heap bett’n de Brown House er de Lan-year 
House, an’ yer only haster pay fifty centser day. Look 
lak, jedge, dat he tuck me ter be jiss lousy wid money, 
anner tell de trufe, hit did mek me sorter swell up an’ 
feel mer oatses. Dat house wuz inner place dey calls 
Yammycraw, sump’n lak dat, an’ dar we went. Atter 
w’ile de mans say, how’d yer lakker li’l’ dram? jisso. Hit 
wuzzer ’bout mer timer day ter tekker dram, an’ hit 
need’n be no li’l’ dram neever, so he pulls outer pint flass 
fum he pocket, anner tooker dram. Dat licker sho wuz 
hot. No sooner dan hit git in mer goozle dan hit shot 
clean thoo me ter mer toes. Jedge, dat licker wuz sho 
nuff strong. Atter dat licker went down an’ seed mer 
toes, hyere hit come back ter mer haid. I feel jiss lakker 
wuzzer troddin’ in de air. Look lakker couldn’t keep mer 
footsies on de groun’ ; look lakker wants ter fly. I spec 
dat w’enner gits ter singin’ dem ol’ time chunes. But all 
I wanter do wuz ter fly, an’ still I didn’t wanster fly 
back home, lakker oughter done, an’ denner wouldn’t be 
in all dis trouble. Well, jedge, I flewed anner flewed, 
an’ w’enner wakes up, dar I wuz in de calaboose, an’ mer | 
mout’ hit sho wuzzer buzzin’ anner dryin’ up, an me er 
prayin’ ez fasser kin fur de good Lawd ter git me out’n 
dis scrape. Young marster, is you de jedge? Seem 
lakker seed you afo. Ain’t you one er dem Ukkerhot 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


235 


dat 
i at 
I 

IT I 

fer.' 

% 

ear 

Dok 

iey, 

an’ 

ills 

ter 

lit 

hit 


boys wot usen ter live down dar at Cochran? Look 
hyere, young marster, ef you is, doan yer projic wid dis 
ol’ nigger ! Iser feelin’ too bad ter tek any foolin’ fum 
yer. I’ll tu’n yer ’cross mer knee anner spank yer good, 
yer liT raskil. Yer is ! Go ’way, poleeces, gimme hat an’ 
lemme go ! T’ankee, young marster, Ise sho gwineter hit 
de grit an’ git out’n dis yer town, anner never wanster 
seeder nuvver hotel anner fuss-class bo’din’ house. Wot 
I wants now is ter seed mer ol’ ooman an’ ax her pardin’. 
Good bye, folkses ! T’ankee, young marster,” and before 
he could be stopped he was gone. 

The case was marked dismissed. 


THE SIGN OF DEATH. 


Among the old-time negroes, and, to tell the truth, the 
same idea prevailed among many whites, that the contin- 
ued howling of a dog at night was a sign that there was 
to be a death in the family of the owner of the dog. This 
superstition is fast disappearing, except, of course, among 
the old-timey negroes. The negro with his education is 
getting away from such superstitions, but there are some 
who are afraid to let it slip entirely away. 

Peter and Ann belong to this class. The other night, 
about the turn of the day, they were aroused by the awful 
howling of their hound in the yard, and it was plain 
that the noise worried Ann much more than it did Peter, 
who made no comment. Fact is, he pretended to be 
asleep, but Ann knew him so well that he failed to fool 
her. He heard the howling just as well as did Ann, but 




236 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


-n 


Peter was lying there hoping that Ann would go out 
and quiet the dog and allow him to sleep. All to himself 
he was abusing the dog for howling so. Finally, when 
Ann could stand it no longer, she said : 

“Peter, git up an’ mek dat dawg hush he fuss/ 

No response. 

“Peter! Git right up er tell yer. ’Twoon’t do fur me 
ter git up ter ten’ ter dat dawg, effer do ’twoon’t be 
good fur him.” 

Peter snores. 

“Datter sho sign er deff in dis fambly, de way dat j 
dawg howl. Wunner who de Lawd gwineter ter erway 
now. Ef He want me er is sho ready anner waitin’.” ^ 

This causes Peter to wish he had gotten up, and he 
eases down on his pretended snoring a little. ^ 


“De Lawd know zac’ly who ter tek. He atter de sin- 
ner. He atter dem dat ain’t ready, dem dat ain’t ben 
wash in de blooder de lam’, an’ ain’t got deys ’senshun 
robe ready.” 

Peter was now listening hard. Now and then he 
would feel a cold spell. He wanted to cuss the dog, but 
he thought of the sure sign of death in the family and 
things were getting to be uncomfortable. In the mean- 
time Ann was talking, as if to herself. 

“Deys say dat w’enner houn’ howl lak dat hit mean 
dat dar is sho gwineter be er deff in de fambly, an’ yer 
woon’t know who hit gwineter bese tell de deybreak, an’ 
de fambly gits up, an’ de fustist member er de fambly dat 
de dawg go ter dat de one that de Lawd sot he seal on.” 

Peter was never more awake in all his life. He would 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 237 

have given anything in this world if he could only cuss 
jtthat dog without offending the Lord. 

“Er memmers one time w’en er houn’ howl lak dat in 
D| Mose Thomas’ yod, an’ de nex’ mawnin, de houn’ hop on 
idey li’l’ gal, an’ fo night come dat liT gal wuz all laid out 
in de li’l’ coffin widder li’l’ han’s all cross an’ she sho did 
imekker fine cawps.’ 
e, » Peter gave a snort and woke up. 

€ ! “How longs dat dawg beener howlin’ datter way, 
j honey?” 

“Mouty nigh all night, an’ yer knows wot de sign is. 
l! Dar sho gwineter be er deff in dis fambly.” 

J “Go’n ter sleep, honey, er ten’ ter de dawg. Spec he 
hongry, er mebbe deys ain’t no water in de pan.” 
e Peter gets up and goes out into the yard. Sure enough 
the pan is dry and he fills it with water from the well. 
l '|He pats the dog satisfactorily and the almost famished 
“| animal fawns his thanks. Peter goes back to bed with : 
11 . “Dat alls de matter wid dat dawg. He nairly pairsh 
ter deff fur water. Dunno how come yer doan fill up dat 
c „pan w’en yer comes ter baid. Ef yer ain’ter gwineter 
1 gi’ de dawg water, all yer gotter do jiss ^ay so, 
i anner fix de water merse’f. Dat wot mek de po’ dawg 
* howl lak dat. Dar ain’t nuffin in dis sign er deff bisniss. 

Ain’ nobody butter passel er ol’ wimmen dat keep dat up 
1 no how.” 

r . But Ann was sound asleep. After the dog ceased to 
1 howl she smiled in the darkness of the room at her own 
1 cleverness, and then fell into a good sleep. Now fully 
assured that Ann’s snores were genuine, Peter was thor- 


I 


238 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


oughly disgusted, and couldn’t refrain from saying know- 
ing that Ann wouldn’t hear him : < 

“Doggone dat dawg, an’ you, too, yer big ol’ gobber 
fat.” i 

Then he fell asleep himself. f 

i 

! i 

THE MATRONS’ CLUB. 

1 

Precious Jackson asked permission of her mar to allow > 
the use of the house for a meeting of the matrons’ club , 
she was organizing. 

“Wot kiner noo fandangle dat, Precious ? Hit look ter ( 
me lak dey izzer all de time er gittin’ up sump’n noo. ] 
Wotter matrin’ club, no how?” 

“W’y, mar! Er is sho shamer yer ignunce. Hitter 
s’iety whar de wimmens meet an’ talk an’ pass er liT > 
fiver clock tea roun’ wid dese saltine crackers.” 

“Well, cose er didn’t know, an’ yer kain’t fine out 
nuffin cep’n yer ax somebody wot know, an’ yer needn’t 
git yer back upper ’bout hit.” 

But the consent was given, anything to advance the 
pushing of Precious into society, and without knowing 
anything more what a matron is than a child unborn, the 
house was gotten ready for the meeting. 

Decorations made the front room look really scrumptu- 
ous, and at night, with the big lamp and the red shade 
turned down low, giving a subdued air to the whole af- 
fair, the members coming in uttered exclamations of de- 
light. The company settled down, and then came the 
start. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


239 


“Er moves dat Miss Precious Jackson be made pres’- 
dent er dis club, effer gitter succunt,” said Melinda. 

“Cose er dunno nuffin ’bout hit, but dey tells me dat dis 
j wuz ter be er matron’s club, hit sho woon’t look right fuh 
er onmarrit oomans ter be de pres’dent uvver marrit 
I wimmens’ club. Dar izzer heaper times w’enner lotter 
| marrit wimmens wanter talk w’en deys doan want no on- 
marrit oomans roun’. Dese onmarrit wimmens dey go 
right off an’ tell alls dey hyeer. But ef yer alls wanter 
j ’lec’ Miss Precious Jackson de pres’dent, er ain’ter gwine- 
ter say er wud.” 

“Dat sho right, Miss Perdoo, deys ain’t nobody wot 
J t’ink mo’er Miss Precious Jackson dan er dooz, but er 
i marrit oomans sho ought ter be de pres’dent,” said Miz 
Passmore. 

“Den, ef dat de case, er moves dat Miss Perdoo be 
’lect de pres’dent, an’ Miss Precious Jackson de succer- 
terry, kase wese meetin’ at her house, an’ ’tain’t right ter 
shot her out’n de room,” said Melinda. 

The motion was carried, and a member suggested that 
the club discuss the question: “How to Treat a Hus- 
band ?” 

“Ef yer wanter git erlong wid yer husbun jiss feed 
him good. Er gi’ mer ol’ mans all dat he kin eat, anner 
fill him up evvy day wid all he kin stuff. Dat keep him 
inner good ’umor an’ w’enner ax him for er nickel atter 
dinner he gimme ten cent.” This from a member. 

“Effer wants ter gitter nickel out’n mer ol’ mans, er 
jiss wrop mer oms roun’ he neck anner smack him right 
in de mout’ anner say, kain’t yer gi’ y^r honey-bunch er 


240 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

dime ter-day? Dat fotch him evvy time.” This from 
another. 

‘'Dat ain’t de way er dooz. Effer wants de ol’ mans 
ter gimme er nickel, er say gimme er nickel, Jim. He 
say, wot yer wants widder nickel. Er say, mer shoes dun 
wored out an’ mer footses on de groun’ anner jiss bleege 
ter have some shoes, dat wot. He say, yer knows yer 
kain’t git er pa’r er shoes fur er nickel. Er knows dat, | 
er say, butter gwineter ax yer fur er nuvver nickel nex’ » 
week, an’ atter w’ile er gitter nuff ter buyed me er pa’r 
er shoes. All de time er doan cracker smile. He look at 
me straight an’ he seeder ain’ter funnin’, an’ he say, 
hyere two dollars, doan yer ax me fur no mo’ money 
inner mont’.” This was Henrietta. 

“Lor’, chiles, dat ain’t de way er treat mer ol’ mans. 
Evvy pay-day er goes ter de brickyod anner seed him 
draw he pay, anner say, gimme dat money, Bill, an’ effer j 
feel lak hit er gwineter gi’ yer nuff ter git some baccy 
wid, an’ ef yer gimme any sass er bruk yer haid. Dar 
ain’ter bitter use foolin’ wid dese mens. Yer gotter let- 
turn knows yer boss er dey sho gitter way wid yer.” 
This was Maria. 

“Alls er do w’enner wants er nickel fum mer ol’ mans 
izter say, honey, kin yer spar yer liT wifey er nick dis j 
mawnin ? An’ he go right down in he pocket an’ up come 
er nickel. Dat de way er treats mer husbun.” This from 
a young woman in the corner. 

“How longs yer ben marrit, chile ?” asked Maria. 

“Me’n Tom gits marrit two weeks ergo dis cornin’ 
Chuesday.” 

“Eh-her ! Dat wotter t’ought. Er marrit oomans dat 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


241 


talk lak dat ain’t got no bisniss jinin’ er marrit ooman’s 
club. Yer ain’t marrit yit, yer jiss ’gaged,” said Maria. 

“Er bleeve in bein’ kine ter yer husbuns. Dey de ones 
dat mek de money fur us ter spin, an’ w’en mer ol mans 
come home ti’ed, er cook him er good supper er fish an’ 
fried aigs an liver, anner dress up an’ mek de home look 
jisses bright ezzer kin, cause dar iz plenty husbuns in dis 
wul, but dar iz mouty po’ chaince er good uns. Dey is 
sho skace. Er sho bleeve in treatin’ yer husbuns right.” 
This was the view of a member. 

“Yer sho dunno wot yer talkin’ ’bout,” said Maria, “yer 
kain’t tell me nuffin ’bout dese good husbuns. Er sho 
knows um. Mer fuss husbun wuk on de railroad an’ he 
git er dollar er day an’ he brung home er dollar fur me 
ter buy de rashuns. Mer succun husbun wuk at de juan- 
ner fac’ry, an’ dat nigger got so he wouldn’t come home 
w’en he git paid off, an’ denner sho drap him. De nex’ 
mans wotter git marrit ter he er low-down triflin’ raskil, 
anner soon foun’ out dat all he git marrit fur wuz ter git 
sump’n t’eat anner kick him out’n do’s. Dis ol’ mans 
wotter got now ain’t much better, butter sho keep track 
er he pay. Yer kain’t tell me nuffin ’bout dese mens. 
Er sho knows um.” 

The secretary thought the discussion had gone far 
enough, and she and her mother brought in the tea and 
the crackers. This stopped all talk about the best way 
to treat husbands, and the club broke up to meet again 
next month. 


242 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


THE LARCENY OF THE ROSE. 

In a certain front yard on a quiet street in Macon, all 
the flowers had faded and gone, with the exception of 
one, a red, queenly rose that stood out in bold relief at 
the very top of the bush, proudly nodding in the passing 
breezes, regal in its crimson splendor, and the admiration 
of every passer-by, each of whom paid it homage. 

The lady of the house had been troubled all the season 
with the little thieves stealing the finest products of her 
bushes, and this being the last of its kind, she watched 
as one would watch a treasure. She seemed loath to 
pluck it herself, it was so grand there in its loneliness, 
and so splendid! 

But the cook looked out early one morning, and caught 
a little negro in the act of swiping the prized rose. The 
sacrilege was duly reported, the lady of the roses cried 
a bit and sent for a policeman. Officer Reddy responded, 
the boy was locked up in prison, and yesterday he was 
before the court on the charge of larceny. It was the 
cook who testified. Said she: 

“Jedge, yistiddy mawnin’ w’enner goes ter de do’ er 
seed dat triflin’ no-’count nigger w’en he tuck dat flower 
— er seed him wid dese own two eyes, er sho did. Er 
rund out’n de house jisses fasser kin, anner cotch dat 
bcfy ber de collar, jisso. Er ax him wot mek him tek dat 
flower w’en he know hit b’long ter de w’ite folkses, an’ 
Miss Kate she love dem flowers lak dey wuz chilluns ! 
An’ dat alls er knows ’bout it, jedge, cep’n dat he de ! 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


243 


berry nigger wot tuck dat flower, an’ he needn’t say he 
didn’t tek hit neever.” 

The boy was merely a scrap, black, ragged, barefooted 
and hatless. He stood leaning with his elbows on the 
prisoners’ railing in an attitude of indifference, his little 
black scrawny legs crossed, with the toes trying to dig 
into the floor. 

The evidence in, the court asked him what he had 
to say. He looked out of the window at a passing car 
for a moment, and said: 

“Mer par daid an’ mer mar daid, an’ mer li’l’ sister 
she daid, too. She go daid las’ week. Er ain’t got no 
home ter go ter, ain’t got no place whar ter sleep, an’ 
no place fur ter gitter mealer vittles, anner git so lone- 
some datter walk out ter de cimmerterry anner sot down 
by de li’l’ grave whar dey berry mer po’ li’l’ sister, anner 
lay down on de col’ groun’ anner study whar er go. At- 
ter w’ile er hyeerd somebody say sump’n saf lak. Er 
looker roun’ anner doan see nuffin. Deys ain’t no- 
body dar er kin seed. Den hit come ergin, an’ 
still er doan seed nuffin. Den hit say, saf lak, deys 
ain’t no flower on mer grave lak deys is on de uv- 
ver graves in de cimmerterry. Denner knowed hit 
wnr mer po’ li’l’ sister er talkin’ ter me. Denner 
gits up off’n de groun’ anner kim down town, anner 
gwine erlong de street, anner ain’t er knowin’ whar er 
gwine, an’ fuss noos er knowed er seed dat flower 
in de front yod. Hit wuz de onlies’ flower wotter 
seed. Er stop anner look at de flower. Er knowed hit 
would be stealin’ effer tuck dat flower, kase dat de w’ite 
,folkses flower, but all de timer kep onner hyeerin’ sump’n 


244 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


say saf lak, git dat flower ; git dat flower ! an’ put hit on 
mer liT grave. An’, jedge, er jiss couldn’t he’p hit. Er 
jiss hafter tek dat flower, an’ ef dat oomans hadn’t er 
cotch me lak she do, er sho wuz gwineter put dat flower 
on mer liT sister grave, er sho wuz. Please, jedge, doan 
sen’ me ter de gang an’ mer liT’ sister wot daid ax me 
ter git dat flower fur her grave out dar in de cimmer- 
terry.” 

Over on the side of the court room, where the wit- 
nesses stay, a black hand was held up. The court saw it, 
and supposing it was somebody who wanted to help the 
boy out of his scrape, called the man before him, and 
asked if he had anything to say for the boy. 

“Me he par,” said the man. 

Then up went another hand on the witness side of 
the room. This time it was that of a woman, and she 
was also called up. 

“Me he mar,” said the woman. 

“Well, if you are he par, and you he mar, where is he 
li’l’ sister wot daid?” asked the court. 

“She home,” said the woman. 

The boy saw he was cornered. From the plaintive 
tone he quickly passed to one of defiance, and he de- 
clared with all the vim of an old offender that he did 
not take the flower, was at home in bed at the time the 
cook said he stole it, and that all the cook had told was 
an outrageous lie from beginning to end. 

But the boy was so small that the court was puzzled 
to know what to do with him. He finally decided to turn 
him over to his par and mar that they might apply the 
chastening rod to their heart’s content. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


245 


In the meantime the lady of the roses mourned the loss 
of her crimson queen. 


THE HUMMING BIRD SOCIETY. 

It was a meeting of the Humming Bird Society for the 
Prevention of Cruelty to Children that met last night at 
the residence of Sister Thomas, wife of the Rev. Wall- 
Eye Thomas, the pastor. 

It was a gathering of those with and without children, 
who were deeply interested in the bringing up of the 
youth of the country in the way they should go. At least 
that is what one of the members said. 

“Mer frien’s,”said. Sister Thomas, “we is call tergevver 
dis ebening ter talk erbout de bestist way ter brung up 
our chilluns in dis weekit wul. Wese all kin seed dat 
de chilluns gwine roun’ de streets er de city er Macon 
dat dey muvver orter be ershamer deysevves ter ’low on 
de street lookin’ lak dey dooz. Dey ain’ clean, deys 
ragged, dey ha’r ain’ comb an’ dey sho looker sight. Er 
is sorry fur dey muvvers, er sho is. Dat wot dis s’iety 
fur, ter mek dem muvvers treat dey chilluns lak dey 
wuz sho nuff folkses.” 

All had paid strict attention to what Sister Thomas 
had said. Being the wife of the pastor, her remarks 
were entitled to a certain amount of respect. As soon as 
she thought it proper to make remarks to follow, Pre- 
cious Jackson said: 

“What Sister Thomas say is de gospil trufe. Some er 
de chilluns wotter seed on de streets look lak dey blong 


246 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


out hyere at de Ruff Home whar dey keeps de po’ people. 
Dunno who brats dey is, but hit sho er shame fur er 
oomans wot calls herse’f muvver ter ’low dem chilluns 
ter be on de street. Hit wotter calls croolty, ’tain’t nuffin 
but croolty, dat wot hit is. W’en we had all dat col’ 
wevver dar wuzzer liT gal datter muvver mekker war 
dese yer liT socks an’ dar wuzzer nekkid liT laigs jisser 
freezin’. Ef dat ain’t croolty ter chilluns, wot is hit? 
Er axes yer all, wot dat but croolty?” 

“Look hyere, Precious Jackson, dat mer chile yer talk- 
in’ ’bout so scan’lous, an’ dat de style fur chilluns. Lak 
ter knowed wot yer know ’bout chilluns, an’ yer ain’ got 
no chilluns. Dat de way ter mekker chile laigs tough so 
she woon’t cotch de croup. De doctor tol’ me dot out’n 
he own mout’, dat wot he dun.” This from Minerva 
Williams. 

“Yer sho is talkin’ sense now, Sister Williams,” said 
Melinda. “Dunno wot dat gal Precious Jackson doin’ in 
dis s’iety no how. Who ’lected her er memmer? Dat 
musser ben dun dat meetin’ datter miss.” 

“Sisters ! Sisters ! Less doan have no fuss. Ef Sister 
Mernervy bleeve dat de style an’ dat hit mekker liT gal 
laigs tough so she kain’t cotch de croup, hit all right. Dat 
Mernervy’s bisniss. Less tek up de nex’ queshun.” Sis- 
ter Thomas thus cooled things off. 

“Er reeds in de paper,” said Miz Passmore, “dat dey 
is fixin’ ter mek stockin’s an’ — skuse me, Sister Thomas, 
is Bruvver Thomas whar he kin hyeer us wimmens talk ? 
— an’ kusset kivvers an’ gyarters free fur de wimmens. 
Is yer alls hyeerd erbout dat?” 

“Mer liT gal reeds dat ter me, anner tol’ er ter shot 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


247 


up, dat hit ’tain’t so, but ef yer reeds hit, Sister Passmo,’ 
hit muss be de trufe. Butter sho dunno wot deys gwine- 
ter do dat fur. Dat some trick er dese mens wot all de 
time foolin’ wid sump’n deys ain’ got no bisniss wid. Yer 
speck hit so, Sister Passmo’ ?” 

‘‘Lor’, honey, doan yer ax me. Dat wot de paper sayes. 
Effit so, er sho gwineter git me some. Dey is mekkin 
de stockin’s so long dees days dat yer gotter war galluses 
ter keep um up, anner dunno wot dey wants ter give 
gyarters ’way fur. Er got mer fust kusset kivver ter 
put on yit, but ef dey is gwineter gi’ um ter yer free er 
sho war one fur luck.” 

“Sisters, dis meetin’ is ter talk ’bout croolty ter chil- 
luns,” said Sister Thomas, “an’ hit mouty nigh ten er- 
clock, an’ mer ol’ mans is gwineter wanter git ter baid, 
ef yer doan mine. Ef yer got any mo’ ter sayes erbout 
croolty ter chilluns yer better be gittin’ ter hit. Dooz any 
er yer alls know ’bout any sick chilluns in de settlement ?” 

“Mer li’l’ John Henry got de rash mouty bad,” said 
one. 

“Mer li’l’ Marfy Lou got de measles, but deys ain’ 
bruk out yit, an’ de doctor he say he dunno ef deys mea- 
sles er no,” said another. 

“Wot yer gi’in yer chile fur de rash ?” asked Precious 
Jackson, in her sweetest tones, fearing another outbreak. 

“Dar yer izzer ’gin, Precious Jackson, er dippin’ in 
whar yer ain’ got no bisniss. Wot yer wants ter know 
wot de oomans gi’in’ de chile fur de rash fur? Yer ain’t- 
er marrit oomans, an’ yer ain’ got no bisniss shootin’ off 
yer lip wid us marrit wimmenses. Eh sho ’spise er oom- 


248 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

ans lak you is, er sho do.” Sister Williams was getting 
mad. 

“Mer sister gotter chile dat got de rash,” said Precious. 
“Well, yer brung yer sister ter de meetin’ an’ yer stay 
to home an’ ’ten’ ter de sick chile, dat wot yer dooz. Dar 
is some wimmens in dis wul dat ain’ got de sense dey 
wuz bawned wid, an' you one uvvum.” 

It was a good thing that the pastor walked in about 
this time, or the meeting would have broken up in a row. 
As it was, he shook hands all round, said something good 
to each, and they departed well pleased with the meet- 
ing. 


THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT. 

The breakfast was over, but the lady of the house lin- 
gered at the table alone, and sipped her coffee, thinking 
over the plans of the day. There were some things to 
get for dinner, and there was some shopping to do, and 
come calls to make, and she was figuring on how she 
would make up the schedule. There was a certain 
amount of work to be done in the morning, and she 
couldn’t do the shopping until the afternoon, and then 
there were the calls. While thus engaged, Henrietta, 
the cook, walked in and stood around, waiting for the 
word to clear away the dishes and get her own breakfast. 
Finally the lady of the house worked out her problem, 
and started to arise from the table. 

“Yer didn’t knowed datter gotter leave yer, Miss Fan- 
nie, butter sho is.” Henrietta was gathering up the 
dishes. 


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249 


“Why, I never knew a word about it ! When are you 
to leave ?” The lady of the house knew what trouble she 
would have to get another cook, and she was not going 
to give up the bird in the hand if she could possibly 
prevent it. 

“Er gwineter leaves on de fusser de mont’. Er sho 
hate ter leaves yer, Miss Fannie. Yer ben mouty good 
ter me sence er ben hyere.” 

“Well, I have tried to treat you right, Henrietta. I 
hope that you will be treated as well where you are go- 
ing.” 

“Er tell yer right now, Miss Fannie, ef he doan treat 
me right er gwineter pack up mer doll rags and cames 
right back ter Miss Fannie, er sho will!” 

“Oh, ho ! Then you are going to get married. Who 
is the lucky individual ?” 

“He ain’ no vijjul, he er mans wot drive de livvry 
waggin wot bring de meat evvy mawnin. He jiss keep 
on atter me teller ain’ git no ress. Evvy time he bring de 
meat he ax me ter has him. Deys tell me he er mouty 
good mans, an’ he come uvver mouty good fambly.” 

“Moves in the best circles, I suppose.” 

“Ma’am?” 

“I mean that he stands high in the community.” 

“Oh, yassum! Cep’n he stoops, he scrape he haid 


cornin’ in dat do’.” 

“Does he make enough to support you ?” 

“He gitter er dollar er day, an’ us aim ter go ter house- 
keepin’ soons we git marrit. Deys ain’ gwineter be but 
two uvvus, an’ us gwineter dooz our own cookin an 
me’n Jim sho oughter lives on dat. He git bode fur fif y 


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center day whar he bo’din’, an’ he say he gwineter bode 
wid us w’en us git marrit an’ pay me dat three dollars, 
an’ us pay de rent and pay on de furnchur with dat uvver 
three dollars.” 

“Why, how do you figure that, Henrietta? You say 
he gets six dollars a week ; he will pay you three dollars 
of that for his board ; then the other three dollars will 
be paid on rent and furniture. Now where do you come 
in ? Seems to me that he has made no provision for you 
in his calculations.” 

“He better mek some pervisions fur me, er tell yer dat 
right now! Hit sho look lak hit all fur Jim. Yer got 
me kiner fluster up, Miss Fannie. Butter tell yer right 
now er ain’ter gwineter stan’ fur no foolin’. He gotter 
mek pervisions fur me.” 

“It is possible now, that he thinks with your economy 
that the three dollars he pays you for board will be 
enough for the two, being as you are a light eater.” 

“Light eater, nuffin ! Er kin eat jisses much’s Jim 
kin. Yer reckin dat wot dat nigger up ter, Miss Fan- 
nie?” 

“I couldn’t say, but according to the way you tell it, 
Jim isn’t allowing for nothing but his own board, and for 
the rent, and the furniture, and not a cent for your 
clothes and shoes, and, of course, you will have to have i 
clothes and shoes, even if you are married.” 

“Coser will! Mo’n dat, er izzer gwineter haves um, 
too. Dat nigger ain’ gwineter fool dis chile. Law, Miss 
Fannie, ef ’twarn’t fur de w’ite folkses er was gwine 
right long an’ marry dat nigger,*an’ he ain’ ’lowin’ me 
no pervisions an’ no clo’es an’ ho. shoes ! Well, well, 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


251 


well ! Ef hit warn’t fur de w’ite folkses er dunno wotter 
nigger dooz. Er is sho glad yer tol’ me ’bout dat nigger. 
W’en dat Jim comes dis mawnin wid de meat er sho 
gwine ter buss dat marryin’ bisniss. Er hadder bad 
dream ’bout dat nigger no how. Weller, do declar ! 
Er knowed dar wuz sump’n wrong wid dat nigger de 
very fuss time he ax me ter has him. Dese niggers sho 
is triflin’, an’ no count in dis wul.” 

Miss Fannie was wise to say nothing more. She had 
saved her cook, and that morning Henrietta received a 
double allowance of breakfast. 


AUNT ANN. 

In a few more years there will be none left of the “fo 
de war” negroes, and with them will go the old white 
people who knew and could appreciate them. 

There will always be old negroes, but they will be of 
the time when there were no slaves nor slave owners, 
of the time when there was no bond of sympathy between 
white and black, and the devotion, if any at all, was 
that which was inherited. 

The stories of those old “fo de war” negroes will fail 
to stir up pleasant memories as they do now, and how- 
ever true, will not be believed by those who will come 
after those old whites and their sons and daughters have 
passed away. For this reason let us make the most of 
them. A gentle stirring of the heartstrings does not hurt 
us as we grow old. 

In nearly every family there was one old auntie, or 


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mommer, who ruled the household in a way. She could 
scold or spank the children, or she could give sharp ad- 
vice to the older ones, and not a word would come as 
reproof from the head of the house. And yet that old 
auntie or mommer knew and kept her place. There was 
a certain line that she never thought of crossing. 

When the beautiful home now belonging to Mr. Alex 
Block was the property of the Collins family many years 
ago, one of these privileged negresses lived on the lot. 
She grew with and had nursed all the children, and was 
the nurse when the older people were sick, and never was 
there a more faithful nurse. As she grew old her labors 
were lightened, until her only duties were to dust the 
parlor, leaving all the house-cleaning to younger serv- 
ants. The care of the parlor was entrusted to Aunt Ann, 
and woe be unto any young servant who entered that 
sacred precinct. 

In this parlor — they had parlors in those times — was 
some valuable and beautiful marble statues and statu- 
ettes, and these were kept white and spotless by the busy 
duster of Aunt Ann. One day, after Aunt Ann had per- 
formed her morning duty of dusting the room and its 
contents, there arrived as an addition to the collection a 
bronze statuette of the Greek Slave. Mrs. Collins, known 
to the household as Miss Liza, gave it a prominent place 
in the parlor, because it was the latest addition, and she 
wanted her friends to admire its beauty. 

The next morning after the arrival, Mrs. Collins went 
into the parlor to take an admiring look at the statuette, 
and was surprised to find a towel wrapped around it. 


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Why, Aunt Ann, what in the world did you put a 
towel around that statuette for?” 

Now, look hyere, Miss Liza, er kin stan’ ter have 
dese hyere nekkid w’ite oomans in dis yer pyarlor, butter 
tell yer right now, an’ yer hyeer me good, er ain’ter 
gwineter stan’ fur no nekkid niggers in hyere.” 

THE EAGLE AND THE BUZZARD. 

There is no doubt about it, the hackmen are somewhat 
disturbed over the advent of the taxicab. Some seem to 
think that it is now only a question of time when the 
hack must go, the taxicab taking its place. 

They were discussing the matter down at the union 
depot yesterday. One of them, an old hackman, did not 
fear any trouble on this score, and told the following 
story to illustrate what he meant: 

One time an eagle and a buzzard were perched on a 
rail fence, discussing the events of the day, when the 
[eagle remarked: 

“Why doan yer quit dis way er livin’, on de daid? 
Why doan yer kill yer own grub an’ not be er folrin’ 
up de daid?” 

“Er waits on de Lawd,” said the buzzard. 

“Hitter mouty po’ bisniss waitin’ on de Lawd. Jiss 
look at me. Er swoops down ter de groun’ anner pick 
upper lam’ errer goat, errer pig, anner feeds on um.” 

“Er ruvver wait on de Lawd,” said the buzzard. 

“But de Lawd gwineter git ti’ed er yer waitin’ on Him 
some er dese days, an’ den whar izyer?” 


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“Er waits on de Lawd,” said the buzzard. 

“Yer sotter roun’ on de fences an’ de daid trees, et 
yer sail roun’ in de sky lak yer so lazy, tell yer see 
sump’n go daid an’ den yer flop down ter git yer mealer 
vittles. All er do is ter scoot down an’ pick upper chick’n 
anner hit hit er licker two, an’ dar mer fresh supper.” 

“Er ruvver wait on de Lawd,” said the buzzard. 

“Yer ain’t gotter bitter style ’bout yer. Dat one reezin 
yer ain’t poorty lak me. Ef yer dooz lak me yer git 
sump’n t’eat any timer day, an’ yer doan have ter sail 
roun’ in de sky smellin’ fur sump’n dat doan smell good. 
Better do lak me.” 

“Er waits on de Lawd,” said the buzzard. 

About this time a hunter came along and seeing the 
eagle and the buzzard sitting together on the fence, he 
shot the eagle and it tumbled over. The buzzard eyed it 
for a while and said: 

“Er ruvver wait on de Lawd,” and made a most de- 
lightful meal two days after of the proud bird. 

“Dat de way er doin’ ’bout dis noofangle cab, er izzer 
waitin’ on de Lawd,” said the old hackman. 


SLOWFOOT SAL’S RIDE. 

There was quite a gathering in a vacant lot in Yama- 
craw yesterday afternoon. You could see the women 
rushing through the alleys, and some of them climbing 
over the fences, but all going in the direction of the va- 
cant lot. That something unusual was going on \ as cer- 
tain, and this unusual thing was an effort on the part of 


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255 


Slowfoot Sal to ride a mule. The mule was the property 
of Jim, the cut-rate drayman, who had driven the poor 
animal until she had positively refused to budge another 
step, and in consequence Jim had turned the mule in the 
lot to pasture. 

“Fur de lanner Goshen, Sal, wot yer doin’ ter dat 
ol’ mule?” was a question Melinda fired at Sal the mo- 
ment she came up panting, having run all the way. 

“Ain’ doin’ nuffin ter de mule. Er is jiss gwineter 
rid hit laic de noo law say er kin rid hit. Dat all er 
gwineter do. Wot yer gotter do wid hit, no how ? ’Tain’t 
nunner yer mule, Jim say er kin rid hit. Come hyere, 
Bill, an’ he’p me up on dis mule back !” 

Bill moved forward slowly. He knew Sal, and he was 
afraid of her. He couldn’t quite make out why Sal 
wanted to ride, and he had not heard of any new law 
as to riding mules. 

“Stan’ roun’ on de sider de mule, Bill; wot yer stan- 
nin’ dar lak yer gwineter sleep? Tek holt er mer foot! 
De mule ain’ter gwineter kick yer. Wot yer skyeerder 
’bout ? He’p me up !” 

Bill knew he was in for it. He caught hold of Sal’s 
foot and thus she got on the back of the mule. Then 
she threw a foot over and was astride. 

“Look hyere, Sal, datter regler scan’le ! Git down of- 
fun dat ol’ mule ! Dem poleeces gwineter come roun’ 
hyere atter w’ile an’ deys sho tek yer up. Fur de lan’ 
sake !” 

“Ef yer doan wants ter seed me rid dis mule er strad- 
dle, yer kin jiss tek yerse’f off. De noo law say er kin 
rid dis mule straddle, anner sho is gwineter do hit. 


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Whoa, Beck! Doan yer gitter projickin’ roun’ hyere 
lak yer wus hook ter er dray. Sorter juk mer frock 
down, Melindy. Now, Beck, git up ! Giddup dar er 
tell yer ! Giddup !” 

But Beck stood still, knowing that Sal had no right on 
her back. 

“Gimme er stick, Bill ! Ef yer kain't finer stick, gimme 
dat brick over dar in de cornder. Dis mule sho gotter 
giddup. Sot stiddy in de boat, Beck. Er ain’ter gwine- 
ter hut yer. Gimme dat brick, Bill !” 

Bill found the brick, and then wondered how Sal was 
going to use it. 

“Dun tor yer ter giddup, now ef yer doan histe yerse’f 
roun’ dis lot, er sho gwineter lam yer side de haid. Gid- 
dup dar, er tell yer !” and Sal struck the animal a vicious 
lick on the neck. The mule pricked up its ears, but that 
was the only movement. 

“Ain’ nunner yer all gwineter he’p me? Tek this 
brick, Bill, an’ slam hit side de haid!” But Bill had 
fooled with mules before. 

“Er tell yer wot de matter wid dat mule,” said Me- 
linda, “hit ain’ used ter er oomans ridd’n on he back. Hit 
sump’n noo.” 

“De or ij jit gotter git used ter hit, kase hit de noo 
law fur er oomans ter rid straddle, anner gwineter rid 
dis mule straddle effer haster buss hit wide op’n.” Sal 
leaned over as far as possible, and gave the mule a lick 
on the top of her head with the brick, which Bill had de- 
clined to use. The mule stood still. 

“Dis is de most kintrariest mule er evvy did seed. 
Kain’t some er yer peoples he’p me git hit stotted ? Ef- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 257 

fer git hit stotted he gwine erlong. Look lak yer alls 
fredder dis mule.” 

“Er hyeerd um sayes dat ef yer twisser mule tail hit 
kiner peert’n him up, butter dunno,” said Pegleg Charlie. 

“Git holt er dat tail, Bill !” said Sal, “an’ twissit clean 
off, er sho gwineter rid dis mule straddle lak de noo law 
say.” 

If Bill did not have a fondness for Sal, and wasn’t 
afraid as death of her, he would never have attempted 
1 to twist the mule’s tail, but Sal’s word was law itself 
with Bill. So he cautiously caught hold of the tail, and 
as he gave it a gentle twist the mule flinched. 

“Twisser tail er tell yer! Wot yer fredder de mule 
fer? Yer sho ought ter be ershamer yerse’f, er gre’t big 
mans fredder po’ oY mule ! Ef yer gwineter twissit, twis- 
sit, an’ doan be foolin’ wid hit.” 

Bill put power behind the twist this time. It was like 
unto an explosion of dynamite. The twist had thrown 
life into the mule, and in less time than it takes to tell it, 
Bill was prone on the ground, with hands across his 
stomach. The sudden action had slid Sal off on top of 
Bill, and amid all the yelling and laughing could be heard 
Melinda saying: 

“Ef yer kain’t ridder mule er straddle, yer sho kins 
ride er mans straddle.” 

Sal scrambled off of Bill, and being mad any way she 
went for Melinda. It was the usual woman’s fight, 
scratching and pulling of wool and explosions of hot 
words. The crowd was so delighted that they threw 
caution to the winds and whooped. The unseemly noise 
brought the police, and when a boy on the outside shout- 


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ed, “Here come de poleeces!” there was a scattering. 
When the policeman arrived, all he saw was the mule 
quietly grazing on the succulent grass, just as though 
Sal had not attempted to ride her astraddle. 


SUGAR BABE. 

It was Sunday night, and Daniel Webster had done 
nothing but eat and sleep all day. He had rested up 
from the week’s work, and was now ready to begin on 
another on the morrow. He and his wife were before 
the fire, and both watching a little black fellow playing 
on the floor. The child had never been named, being 
called Sugar Babe from its birth, the parents agreeing 
to give it a name in the future. 

“Gittin’ time ter gi’ de chile er name, aint hit, Mer- 
nervy ?” 

“Wot de matter wid Sugar Babe? He de feeds liT 
raskil in de wul, aint yer Sugar Babe?” 

Sugar Babe grunted acquiescence. 

“De chile growin’ an’ yer gotter name hit some timer 
nuvver. Yer doan want de chile ter grow ter be er mans 
fo yer gi’ ’im er better name dan dat, ’sides dat aint no 
name er tall. Hitter nickname.” 

“Sugar Babe good ernuff fur me. Er knows yer, Dan- 
nel Webster, wot name yer got stuck in yer haid now?” 

“He de onlies’ chile. Er gotter die some time. Seems 
lak ter me dat Dannel er mighty good name.” 

“Yer doan name no bratter mine Dannel, er tells yer 
dat now fo yer git any furver, so yer kin jiss git dat 
name out’n yer haid,” said Minerva determinedly. 



259 






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“Er jiss sayed hit wuzzer mighty good name, an’ yer 
needn’t git yer back upper ’bout hit. He jisser much 
my chile is yourn Wot de matter wid yer, any how, 
Mernervy? Tears lak yer jiss fly off’n de han’le ever 
timer talk dese days.” 

“Yer ainter gwineter name dat chile Dannel, er tells 
yer dat.” 

“Wot yer par name, Mernervy?” 

“Mer par name Malachi. You know wot mer par 
name weller nuff. Wot yer ax me dat fur, Mister Webs- 
ter ?” 

“W’ich yer t’inks de goodes’ name, Malachi er Dan- 
nel?” 

“Effer wants er aggervatin mans, er sho hunts you up, 
Mister Webster. W’enner sayed datter wants dat chile 
name atter mer par? Tell me dat.” 

“Yer par died in de big jail, effer mek no mistake. 
Dey drap ’im downer trap do’, effer mek no mistake. 
Hit wuzzer ’bout killin’ uvver ooman, effer mek no mis- 
take. Yer ainter gwineter name mer chile Malachi, 
effer mek no mistake,” and Daniel watched her out of 
the corner of his eye. 

“Ef de good Lawd ever mekker meaner mans dan you 
is, dat mans dun daid too long ter fret erbout.” 

Sugar Babe evidently snuffed the battle afar off for 
he began to cry and this was adding fuel to the flame. 
Minerva snatched the baby and threw it on the bed and 
picked up the shovel from the hearth. It came down 
with full force on Daniel’s head. Daniel threw up his 
arms to catch the lick, but was too late. Daniel got a 
stick of wood and Minerva held to the shovel. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


261 


In court they were a sight to behold, and over on the 
witness side of the room was Sugar Babe in the arms of 
a neighbor. Each told of the trouble, and each was fined 
ten dollars. As they were being led away to prison, 
Minerva managed to whisper something to Daniel. He 
paid both fines, and an officer asked him the name of the 
baby. 

“Yistiddy he name Sugar Babe, las’ night he name 
Malachi, now dis mawnin’ he name Dannel,” and he 
smiled the get-together smile. 

Minerva had weakened. 


FOR SALE: ONE GOAT. 

Business being rather good, the draymen were hungry 
yesterday when they drove up to the usual place to get 
out their buckets and eat dinner. It was not until they 
were fairly started with the chewing that the conversa- 
tion began. 

“Ef any yer fellers seeder mans wot want ter buyed 
er goat fur he liT boy, tell him all he gotter do izter 
seed me, anner sell him one mouty cheap,” said Lige, 
who rarely ever took part in the daily debates and talks. 

“Is dat de goat datter seed yer liT boy drivvin tuvver 
day, w’en er pass yer house?” asked Jim. 

“Dat de goat. Is any yer fellers gotter dollar yer 
gimme fur dat goat?” 

“Fur de lan sake, mans, dat goat wuff mo’n er dollar! 
How come yer want ter sell him fur jisser dollar?” 


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“Yer alls gotter tell me fuss, ef any yer wants dat goat 
fur er dollar. ,, 

“Alls mer boys is gals, anner gal ain’t got no bisniss 
widder goat dat er kin seed,” said Bill. 

“Yer kin s’arch me,” said Jim. 

“Nuffin sturrin wid me,” said Pete. 

“Ef er wuzter tek dat goat home mer ol’ oomans quit 
me fo night,” said Henry. 

“Wot de matter wid de goat. Bill?” asked Jim, see- 
ing that there was no chance to sell it in that crowd. 

“In de fuss off, er gin er fi’ dollar bill fur dat goat. 
Mer liT boy jiss keep on er wurrin me ter git him er 
goat. Evy time he seed me comin home he git atter me 
ter git him er goat. He all de timer atter me ter git 
him er goat. Den de ol’ oomans she tek hit up and she 
say w’y doan yer git de boy er goat? Dat boy jiss goods 
er w’ite boy, an’ he jiss bleege ter gitter goat. Er 
sayes, time mouty hod ter be gittin er boy er goat, but 
hit look lak er ain gwineter seed no peace teller git dat 
goat. Hit keep on datter way teller git de goat. De 
boy sayes, wotter wants widder goat effer ain got no 
waggin? Er knowed right den datter jiss hadder gitter 
waggin. So er go long anner git de waggin. Hit tekker 
nuvver fi’ dollar bill. Dat mek ten dollars. Den dat boy 
sayes wot goods er goat’n waggin ef yer ain’ got no hon- 
niss ? Right den er hate dat goat. So er gits de honniss. 
Dener hook up de goat ter de waggin. Denner git down 
town quickser kin ter cotcher load. Dat night w’enner 
gits home dar dat boy widder rag on he eye, anner rag 
on de laig, anner rag on he han. De ol’ oomans sayes, de 
goat rund erway wid Sonny ter-day. Er say hit kiner 


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263 


look lak sump’n rund erway. Whar de goat? She 
says, he down ter de stable. Wid dat er driv down ter 
de stable ter put up de mule. Look lak dat goat jiss 
nachly gotter spite gin me, fur he ben he haid down low 
an’ he come at me. Er wuzzent stud’n bout de goat 
gwineter butt me, an’ fuss noos er knowed hyere he 
come an’ fuss noos er knowed dat er wuz on de groun. 
Fo er kin git up he come ergin. Er step back out’n de 
way anner pick upper brick. De goat he stop an’ look 
at me. He kiner cock he eyes on me kiner sideways. Er 
flung de brick anner hit dat goat twix de eye. He grunt 
an’ den he come at me. Er jump on de dray. De goat 
sot down an’ keep he eye on me. Er shame ter call 
de or oomans, an’ bout dat time o 1’ Isom, ol’ Isom wot 
dig wells, he come erlong anner sayes, how all yer 
folkses, Isom? He onlatch de gate an’ come in de lot, 
an’ no sooner den he git in de lot dan dat goat gitter 
runnin stot an’ fuss noos yer knowed ol’ Isom on de 
groun flatter he back anner kickin ter git up. Er jump 
off’n de dray anner rund ter de ol’ mans anner pick up 
he stick. Den me an’ de goat had hit. Er hit de goat 
er lick, an’ de goat he grunt an’ he come back at me. 
Bout dat time mer liT boy he hyeerd de fuss in de lot 
an’ hyere he come er tarin wid all dem rags. He go up 
ter dat goat an’ dat ol’ fool goat go long wid dat boy 
sames hit wuzzer dog errer cat. He sho did, an’ hit 
sho mek me feel kiner cheap, butter ain sayin nuffin. Er 
pick de o Y mans up anner sayes er is mouty sorry an’ 
datter kill dat goat w’en de boy ain home.” 

“Is dat wot mek yer sellum?” 

“Ain datter nuff ? But dat ain all. Er had ter haves 


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dat waggin mennid an’ git er noo piecer honnis, an’ de 
goat eat up de oF ooman’s winner cyurtin, an’ rund all 
de chick’ns out’n de lot, an’ look lak he wants ter boss 
de whole shebang. He go in de house an’ he eat up 
evvyt’ing he kin git in he mout’, an’ so Saddy de ol’ 
oomans ax me fur some money ter git de rashuns wid, 
anner gi’ her er fi’ dollar bill. She drap de bill on de 
flo an’ de goat eat up de rashun money, anner jiss be 
doggone ef me an dat goat gwineter stay on dat lot. An’ 
dat wot mek me wants ter sell him, but er ain tellin 
nobody but you alls wot dat goat dun. Ef yer finer mans 
wot wants er tame goat fur he liT boy he kin git mer 
goat fur er dollar, an’ ef he kick on de price er th’ow 
in de waggin an’ honnis/’ 

The fellow draymen said they would try and find a 
purchaser for the goat. 


THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET. 

It was a plain case of conjugal infelicity. It was dock- 
eted wife whipping, but this was putting it rather strong. 
It was true, according to the evidence, that Isaiah had 
slapped his wife, and had otherwise interfered with her 
peace of mind, and that he had thrown her trunk out of 
doors, had bundled up her clothes and had thrown a 
lamp globe at her, and pulled her out of bed and shoved 
her into the cold night air, and told her never to put 
her foot in his house again, and had threatened to take 
her by the scruff of the neck and hit her head against 
the bed-post, but some consideration must be given his 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


265 


!■ 




statement as to what she had done. There are always 
two sides to a story. 

“Well, Irene, we can shorten this case by your telling 
how your husband beat you. Go ahead now and tell ex- 
actly what he did.” 

“Kinner tell yer de fuss kermencin uvvit?” 

“Yes, if you don’t take too long.” 

“Well, Jedge, w’en dis mans fuss marrit me, he wuz 
de goodest mans in dis yer town. He kim home evvy 
night reg’lar, an’ me’n him would sot down her de fire 
an’ hold our han’s tell way in de night, an’ he er tellin’ 
me all de time how much he love me. Er wuz jiss de 
happies’ oomans in dis town. Evvy time he kim home 
he brung me er sacker candy er peanuts er sump’n good 
t’eat. Atter w’ile he git later an’ later, an’ fuss noos yer 
knows he er stayin’ way tell atter supper. Den he git so 
fie didn’t come ter no supper. Cose yer know, Jedge, dat 
wuzzent doin’ me right, but evvy time er talk ter him 
’bout hit, he say hit all right, he kiiow wot he doin’. 
Yer know, Jedge, datter kaint stan’ dat all de time, 
anner jiss mek up mer mine dat ef dat de way he gwine- 
ter do, er jiss go out some merse’f. Er went ter see mer 
mar one night anner didn’t fix him any supper, kase 
twarnt no use ter fix him any supper an’ he doan come 
ter hit. Dat night w’en er comes home he git atter me 
erbout no supper. Er tell him datter ben ter see mer 
mar, an’ den he slap me. Den ” 

“You are going back too far. Tell me about this fuss 
last night, and don’t be so long about it.” 

“Well, Jedge, er bleeged ter tell yer de fuss kermencin 
uvvit. Er wuzzer fixin’ ter go ter de opry house ter 


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see de show, an’ he comes in an’ he say, whar yer gwine 
dis timer night? Er say er gwineter de opry house. 
He say, who yer gwine wid? Er say, me’n Mary Scott 
gwine ber oursevves. He say who de mans wot sot up 
de money fur yer ter go ter de opry house. Er say, 
Mary Scott she gwineter pay mer way, jiss lak dat. He. 
say, tek off dem rags an’ cook me some supper fo yer go 
er step. Er say, w’y in de namer de Lawd didn’t yer 
kim home sooner? Hyere ’tis eighter clock an’ timer fix 
supper fur yer hit’ll be atter niner clock. Jedge, er is 
gwineter tell yer de true. Dat mans — he mer lawful 
husban — he slap me, slap me fo time han’runnin’ an’ to’d 
mer skut an’ mer shut waistes an’ tromple on mer hat. 
Den he tuck mer trunk an’ he th’owed dat out’n de do’ 
an’ den he pick up de lamp an’ he th’owed dat at me, an’ 
den he catch mer ber de th’oat an’ choke me so dat er 
feel mer tongue cornin’ loose. Atter dat er scream an’ 
he hit me widder lamp globe, an’ den he tuck down er 
pitcher on de wall an’ he buss dat on mer haid, an’ ber 
dat time er rund out’n de house an’ de poleeces come. 
An’ dat all er knows erbout de fuss las’ night.” 

“Did you get to the show after that?” 

“Git ter de show? An’ mer shut waistes all to’d an’ 
mer skutter draggin’ an’ er knot on mer haid biggern er 
biskit, an’ hit gwine on niner clock ! Cose er didn’t go 
ter no show. Er tuck me t’ings anner went ter mer mar 
dat wotter dun.” 

“Now, Isaiah, tell me your side of it, but be short. 
Life is too brief to take much of it up in listening to do- 
mestic troubles. The world is full of domestic trouble, 
if \ve had time to hunt for skeletons in the closets. Bring 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


267 


out the skeleton in your closet and let me see who is to 
blame in this particular case.” 

“Jedge, dar aint no skellikin in mer closet. Dar whar 
dis oomans keep her rags wot she w’ars. But ef yer 
wants ter know sump’n ’bout de fuss, wot she say izzer, 
pime blank lie, Jedge, ef yer skuse me fur sayin’ hit, but 
dat oomans mek me so mad datter dunno wotter sayin’ 
ha’f de time. Dis oomans doan nevvy stay at home. She 
all de time gone. She go ter her mar evvy day, an’ ef 
taint her mar hit somewhar else. She doan cook no vit- 
tles fur me, she doan sew no buttons on mer shuts, she 
lemme w’ar holes in mer socks, she doan press mer 
britches, she doan tek kyeer de money datter wuks hod 
fur, an’ all she stud’n ’bout is gwineter de opry house 
wid some low down nigger an’ mek out hitter oomans 
name Mary Scott. Aint nevvy seed dis Mary Scott yit. 
Er spec hitter mans dat she call Mary Scott. Dis Mary 
Scott dat she all de timer talkin’ ’bout he w’ar britches, 
effer mek no mistake. An’ las’ night w’enner ax her ter 
cook me some supper fo she go wid dis Mary Scott she 
gits mad an’ de way dat oomans lit inter me wuzzer 
shame. Hit sho wuzzer shame.” 

“Then you deny striking your wife.” 

“Mebbe er tapped her er licker so, Jedge, butter wuz- 
zer funnin, she git me so mad. Ef yer lemme off dis 
time, er sho move erway an’ let her go wid dat Mary 
Scott all de time.” 

“How about that, Irene?” 

“Hit soot me all right. Er is sho ti’ed er dat mans 
slappin’ me jiss lakker wuzzer dawg.” 

“Both of you go, and don’t you come back here any 
more. If you do I will send you both to the chaingang.” 


268 


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A VALENTINE PARTY IN YAMACRAW. 

Valentine’s day falling on Sunday, it was decided to 
give the party last night. 

The party was given at the home of Slowfoot Sal’s 
mar, who lives in Dog alley, Yamacraw, and was in- 
tended to be a swell affair, and so it was. When Liz 
Simmons gives a party she combines business with pleas- 
ure, and the admission fee was ten cents, in advance. In- 
vitations were sent out by the cross-lots way, and the 
news travels fast by this method. A cook leans out of 
the kitchen window and tells it to the passers-by and to 
the cooks within the range of her voice. And thus it 
goes. 

Slowfoot Sal spent her all for a dress for the occa- 
sion. She knew that Whispering Annie would be there, 
and that new girl from Hawkinsville said she was com- 
ing, and Sal was determined that she would out-shine 
them or die in the attempt. 

It was io o’clock before Buckeye Bill from Jackson- 
ville, arrived. Since he lost Gladys Jackson, she having 
married Harelip Pete, Buck had been trying to drown 
his sorrows, using the squirrel brand of whisky for bath- 
ing and drowning purposes. 

“Naw, yer betcher life er doan pays no ten cents ter 
go in dis succus. Effer doan git in free er rise er mcus I 
anner rise hit quick.” 

“Mister Buckeye, yer furgits dat dar am ladies in dis 
house, an’ yer neent t’ink dat cause yer is rich yer kin 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


269 


come hyere an’ cut up lak yer wuz in Jacksons-villes. Ef 
yer wants ter dance et dis party, yer sho gotter ’have 
yerse’f, efyer don’t er sho call de poleeces.” This from 
Liz Simmons, Sal’s mar. 

“Jiss calls yer poleeces. Who skeerder poleeces? 
Dem poleeces in Jacksons-ville dey sho gimme de righter- 
way, anner sho gwineter do some dancin’ right in dis 
berry house dis night, cep’n er die.” 

Sal had been listening to what Buckeye said, but she 
wasn’t ready for the fray. She wanted some dancing 
before she tackled Buckeye. She cautioned her mar not 
to say any more, and then the music started up. Buck- 
eye spied Gladys, his old sweetheart. 

“Hello, Glad., is dis you? Yer gimme de double cross 
w’en yer slip off an’ marry dat Haslit Pete, but dat all 
right. Er wants ter have er roun’ dance widyer dis sebe- 
nin. Hyere, yer hog-eye mans wid de fiddle, speel us er 
two-step,” and they were lost in the whirl. 

“Ef dis ait Slim Sue, yer kin buss me op’n !” said Liz 
Simmons, “whar yer gits dat grass widder hat, Sue? 
Hit sho sot yer off, kaser all ways did say er big hat sot- 
ter slim gal off. Git yer podner, honey, an’ swing dem 
cornders. We sho izzer havin’ er good time.” 

When Buckeye Bill and Gladys had finished their 
j whirl, they sought a corner of the room. 

“How dat Haslit Pete er treating yer, Glad.? Is he 
gi’in’ yer sump’n ter feed yer face?” 

“Er ainter gittin’ any fatter sence me’n ’im hitch, but- 
ter mekkin out. Wot yer fool me wid dat ring fur, 
Buckeye Y 9 

Buckeye was puzzled. Then Gladys told him how Pete 


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swore he saw Buckeye buy the ring at the ten cent store 
and give it to the Simmons gal an’ how she saw that it 
was spurious and threw it at him. 

“Did dat nigger tell yer all dat? He to 1’ yer datter 
got hit at de ten cent sto’ ? He tol’ yer dat er guv hit ter 
de Simmons gal an’ she tho’ed hit at me? Dat nigger 
tol’ yer dat?” 

“Got witnuss dat he tol’ me, an’ dat wot mek me go 
right off an’ marry ’im.” 

“Jiss wait hyere teller kim back,” and off he went in 
search of Harelip Pete. 

Pete was in another room hunting for the refresh- 
ments, and was having a big time with Slowfoot Sal, 
who had gone into the room for fear of having her trou- 
ble with Buckeye Bill because he insulted her mar. 

“Er wants ter see yer, Mister Haslit Pete on some 
’portunt bisniss,” said Buckeye. 

“Yer mek has’e an’ ten’ ter dat bisniss wid Pete, kaser 
er got some bisniss wid yer merse’f,” said Sal. 

“Wot yer dun wid dat ring?” 

“Wot ring yer talkin’ ’bout, mans?” Pete began to 
sniff trouble. 

“De ring wot yer gits fo dollars on down ter de unkie 
shop, an’ spin dat money fur er blowout fur you an’ Glad. 
Yer knows wotter talkin’ ’bout. Hit dat ring er blood. 
Mister Haslit Pete.” Buckeye was warm. 

Slowfoot Sal could hold in no longer. If she broke 
up the valentine party in a row, she couldn’t let the 
opportunity pass to get in her work on the man who 
had dared to insult her mar. She reached for a pepper- 
sauce bottle and she shattered it across Buckeye’s eyes. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


271 


He tried to gouge out the pepper vinegar and the par- 
ticles of glass, but the more he gouged the more he 
rubbed them into his eyes and he was in agony. Being 
now blind and desperate he struck out wildly, and at 
the first dash he caught Pete and something told him 
that it was Pete. With a great strength, intensified by 
the agony he was enduring, he threw Pete on the table, 
where all the eatables, drinkables and crockery were, 
and everything went down with a crash. The dancers 
came out of the other room to see the cause of the com- 
motion, and then it was that Buckeye got in his work. 
'He slung men and women around as if they were dolls. 
Even Sal got caught in the storm. In five minutes Buck- 
eye had the house to himself, and by feeling around in 
the dark found the water bucket. Then he found relief. 

Word had been sent to the police, but on their arrival 
the house was deserted, except that Bill was lying in the 
best bed, and told the police that the fuss must have 
been in the house further down the alley, but that he had 
been sleeping so sound that he heard nothing of it. 

And this is why there will be no case in court. 


FAITH. 

There was sorrow in the house of the Warrens. The 
little girl, the sunbeam of the household, the little girl 
that walked every day with the elder Warren and chat- 
tered about the flowers, the birds, and all the pretty 
things that her bright eyes fell upon, and asked grand- 
father so many questions about — the little girl lay silent 


272 100 STORIES IN BLACK 

upon her little couch. The doctor stood by the bedside 
and looked grave. The mother watched every muscle in 
the doctor’s face, and he, worried because he could not 
say one word of encouragement, and fearing to tell the 
truth, turned away and gave some useless directions. 
Outside the room, with hands clasped behind him, the 
grandfather walked quietly and slowly. There had been 
no walk with the little girl that morning, nor for sev- 
eral mornings, and yet the mornings had been perfect 
days. He heard no merry chatter, no childish questions. 
There were the flowers in the yard that had bloomed in 
the winter days for that child, it seemed, but they were 
not pretty now. As the frost had touched and sickened 
them, so had the black angel touched the little girl in 
the room there. 

Presently a shadow fell across his path. There before 
him was old Anthony, old Anthony who had been in the 
family since both were *boys, since both had played to- 
gether on the old farm. Old Anthony who remained at 
home while he was away camping on the hills of Vir- 
ginia, going to his rest every night with thoughts turned 
to his Georgia home, and feeling that those he left be- 
hind were safe in the care of Anthony. 

“Or marster, how de liT gal dis mawnin? Doan be 
fred ter tell de ol’ nigger.” 

But he received no reply. The grandfather, the ol’ 
marster, buried his face in his hands and turned away. 
Then the old negro knew that all hope had fled. As 
quietly as he came, he shambled away, shaking his head 
slowly. Down to the house his old marster had pro- 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


273 


vided for his last days he shambled. Inside, he dropped 
slowly, painfully, to his knees by the side of his bed. 

“Good ol* Marster wot dwell in hebben whar dar is 
peace an’ res’ fur de weery, wezer cornin’ ter yer dis 
mawnin ter ax yer fur er favor, an’ wese pray dat yer 
grant us. Yer knows yerse’f dat de ol’ mans ainter 
gwineter be er worry ’n yer much longer, fur he days is 
dun counted on dis yairth. De lightnin’ dun strike de 
ol’ tree an’ hit erbout ter fall down. Wezer gwineter ax 
yer dis mawnin to tak de ol’ mans an’ spar’ de liT missus 
dat lyin’ up yander in her baid er waitin' fur de injils 
ter come n’ put dey oms roun’ her an’ tekker ter yer 
boozum, so yer kin pass yer han’ on dat sunshiny ha’r er 
hern an’ say suffer de liT chilluns ter come unto me fur 
sich am de kingdum an’ de glory. Good Lawd, tek dis 
ol’ nigger an’ leave dat sweet liT chile fur mer ol’ mars- 
ter. Dar ain’t nuffin mo’ in dis wul fur dis ol’ nigger. 
He eyes dun ’gin out an’ hit mouty nigh night evvy day 
wid ’im. He kin scasely see ter git erbout an’ he stum’le 
jonner shadow. He toofies all gone, an’ all he eat gotter 
: be spoon vittles. He kaint hyeer good, an’ de win’ hit 
| blow, an’ de funder roll an’ still he kaint hyeer hit. He 
footsies all swell up an’ he shoes hu’t he foots. He laigs 
dey is so weak dat he come mouty nigh drappin’ on de 
groun’ when he walk ’roun de yod. He ol’ oomans up 
dar wid you somewhar ressun in’ Abyham’s boozum, 
Tanks be ter Gawd. De ol’ mans kaint wuk no mo’, 
kaint chop de wood, kaint draw de water, kaint feed de 
hosses, kaint go on airruns, an’ he kaint do nuffin no mo’. 
He so ol’ dat de uvver niggers on de lot got no use fur 
’im, an’ dar aint nobody dat lak de ol’ mans cep’n ol’ 


274 


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marster an’ dat li’F gal up dar in de big house waitin’ 
fur de ainjils. An’, Good Lawd, ’memmer ol’ marster. 
He mouty nigh lak dis ol’ nigger wot love de groun’ he 
walk on, kase he gittin’ ol’ too. ’Memmer him, Good 
Lawd. Doan you tek der li’l’ gal fum ’im now. Cose 
he got Miss Calline an’ he got Marse Willyum, an’ he 
got peoples ter come an’ see ’im, but dey aint lak dat li’l’ 
gal dat so sick. Good Lawd, yer izzer mouty busy mans, 
an’ yer kaint tek time ter seed evvyt’ing wots er gwine 
on, but lemme ax yer efyer evvy seed mer ol’ marster 
tekkin er mawnin walk wid dat li’l’ gal? Did yer tek 
notice how dat poorty li’l’ gal put dat li’l’ w’ite han’ in 
ol’ marster’s an’ dey walk erlong an’ she go on lakker 
one of dese kinnary birds wot sing all day, an’ ol’ mars- 
ter jissus happy as mans kin be happy? Did yer tek 
notice how she run atter er flower an’ pick hit wid dem 
sweet han’s an’ fotch hit ter her gran’par ? An’ ol’ mars- 
ter would mek out dat hit de fines’ flower dat grow? 
Good Lawd, wot live in hebbun, tek de ol’ nigger. Er 
knows yer wants dat li’1’ gal ter be widyer, so yer kin 
see her rund up’n down dem goldin’ stairs an pick 
flowers fur yer, an’ look in dem poorty blue eyes dat all 
de time twinklin’ anner shinin’ anner laughin’, but wot 
yer gwineter do wid ol’ marster if yer tek her ’way fum 
’im? Yer mout jissus well tek de ol’ marster ef yer 
gwineter tek her. Atter she go ’way he er gwine too. 
Dar will be Miss Calline lef’, an’ marse Willyum an’ dem 
peoples wot comes ter seed ’im, but dar woont be no liT 1 
gal ter rund ter meet ’im an’ put dem oms roun’ he neck 
an’ say howdy, gran’par, an’ put dat sweet mouf ter he 
lips. Good Lawd, dat wot mek me ax yer ter tek dis ol’ 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


275 


no count triflin’ nigger wot nobody aint got no use fur, 
wot jisser stayin’ hyere kase he kaint gitter ’way, an’ 
leave dat li 1* gal up dar in de big house. Dis all er ax 
yer, Good Lawd. Do dis much fur de oF nigger anner 
woont bovver yer no mo’. A-men.” 

The old negro arose and looked toward the big house 
as he called it. There was no unusual stirring, every- 
thing looked still. Then he sat down in the old chair 
and remained in the house until next morning. Then he 
shambled up to the big house and found the master of 
the house reading a paper. He looked up at Anthony’s 
approach. 

“Er sorter fred ter ax, ol’ marster, but nobody ben ter 
tell me nuffin. How de li’F miss dis mawnin’?” 

The master of the house laid down the paper, caught 
the old negro’s hand and shook it gently, and said with 
eyes uplifted: 

“All praise be to God, the doctor says she will live.” 
That was all the old negro wanted to know. As he 
turned to shamble back to his house he said softly to 
himself : 

“An’ dar is some peoples in dis wul wot fools ernuff 
ter say dat dey aint no Good Gawd in hebbun.” 


RECONCILIATION. 

The lady of the house toyed with her fork. Breakfast 
was over, the other members of the family had left the 
table, but the lady of the house was thinking over the 
work of the day. The cook was standing in the kitchen 


276 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


door waiting to be called to clear away the dishes and 
the remnants of the meal. The work mentally mapped 
out, Henrietta was called, and she began her duties si- 
lently, which was something unusual, for she always em- 
braced this opportunity to talk. 

“Anything the matter, Henrietta? Are you sick this 
morning ?” 

“Er feelin bout ez well ezzer evvy dooz er reckin.” 

“By the way, I forgot to ask you how you came out 
with the meat man. How did he take his dismissal?” 

“We fix dat all right. He satterfied.” 

“I am glad to hear that. I was afraid he would get 
mad and that would worry you. You can see now how 
he was fixing to get the best of you. All he wanted was 
to marry you and get you to cook for him, and not 
provide for you. How did you satisfy him?” 

“Us git marrit lass night.” 

“Married ! Great heavens ! And you went and married 
that man and knowing that you were not to get anything 
to eat, or to wear ?” 

“Er sho did. Us fix hit all right. He gwineter gimme 
sump’n ter wair, an’ he dun promise ter gimme er par 
er shoes Saddy night. Us is satterfied.” 

“Well! I can’t understand you people to save my life. 
Here you have married a man who gets six dollars a 
week. He is to pay you three dollars of that for his 
board, and the other three dollars is to be paid for rent 
and installments on the furniture. Nothing for your 
clothes or shoes, and certainly you will want a hat some 
time. Isn’t all this true.” 

“Yassum, but us satterfied.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


277 


“And the worst of it all is I must look around for 
another cook. I am certainly surprised at you, Henri- 
etta. I thought you had more sense than that. And I 
suppose that now you were married last night instead 
of waiting for the first of the month as you first in- 
tended, you will leave me right away.” 

“No, ma’am, er is gwineter stayed wid yer. Dat wot- 
ter tell Jim lass night. Er sho gwineter stays wid yer.” 

“Well, I am glad you will. Now tell me all about it.” 

“Yer seed hit disserway, Miss Fannie. Wen Jim 
come wid de meat yistiddy, er tol’ him bout how he aimin 
ter pay me de bode wid de three dollars and pay de rent 
an’ on de furnchur wid de uvver three dollars, an’ he 
say he er mouty light eater, an’ all er hatter dooz is ter 
stay here an’ keep mer job an’ dat gimme sump’n t’eat, 
an’ he kin mek out any w’icher way, an’ he gimme dat 
three dollars jiss lak he say he gwineter dooz. Er gwine- 
ter stay wid yer, Miss Fannie. Yer neent be oneasy bout 
dat. Er ain sayin hit kase hits you, but yer treats me 
mouty well, Miss Fannie, anner sho doan wants ter 
leave yer. Jim say he satterfied.” 

The lady of the house toyed with her fork. It was 
evident that she would have Jim to feed, and this meant 
two things. She must increase the allowance of food 
to Henrietta at each meal, or the raw material might 
disappear. She went through mental calculations, and 
also a study of the situation. It might be a long time 
before she secured as good a cook as Flenrietta, and the 
increased cost of keeping her by furnishing food for 
two, where she now furnished it for one, was not a 
great deal. In the meantime Henrietta was busy with 


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the dishes, and fearing that her hasty marriage had lost 
her the situation. 

“And you say Jim comes of a good family ?” 

“He sho dooz, Miss Fannie. He mar er memmer ef 
our chu’ch, an’ he par er kiner hafway preacher mans. 
Er spec Jim gwineter mek me er good ol’ mans, kase 
he mouty easy satterfied. He jiss keep on lass night 
teller hatter marry him. Er sho wants ter stay wid yer, 
Miss Fannie.” 

“Well, if you are satisfied, and Jim is satisfied, I guess 
I am satterfied too. But don’t you let this happen again, 
Henrietta.” 

“Fo de good Lawd er woont, Miss Fannie.” 

And they were ever happy afterward. 


THE ACCUSATION. 

When Melinda went home Monday night it was evi- 
dent that something had gone wrong. Lige, her hus- 
band, was sitting by the fire and waiting for her. She 
flounced in the house, threw her hat on the floor and, sit- 
ting down, placed her chin on her hands and gazed at 
the fire. 

“Fur de luvver heb’n, wot de matter wid yer, Lindy? 
Izver sick? Yer ack mouty kuyus.” 

“Ain’t no matter ’tall, jisser fresh cut.” 

“Sump’n de matter wid yer! Whar de supper?” 

“Dat hit, whar de supper! Wot yer rickin dat w’ite 
oomans say jiss now?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 279 

“Wot w’ite oomans yer talkin’ ’bout, Lindy? Yer 
mus’ be gwine bughouse.” 

“Gwine sump’n, efyer lemme tell yer. Wot yer rickin 
Miss Julia tell me jiss now?” 

“How de namer de Lawd er knows wot she tell yer 
an’ me hyere in dis house waitin’ fur yer ter come home 
so er kin git sump’n t’eat?” 

“Miss Julia say er tucker pouner sugar anner canner 
termattuses fum out’n de pantry, jis lakker wants any 
her or sugar an’ termattuses. Look lak de w’ite folkses 
gittin’ wusser an’ wusser ’bout us niggers. Miss Julia 
talk jiss lak she t’ink er steal. Er doan wants any her 
ol’ sugar’n termattusses. Er kin git sugar’n termattusses 
dout stealin’ uvvum, sho’s yer bawn. Er izzer lady, 
er is.” 

“Whar de supper, Lindy?” 

“Ain’t no supper, er tell yer! How many mo’ timer 
gwineter tell yer? Wot de matter wid yer?” 

“Yer aint tell me nuffin ’bout no supper yit.” 

“Er tol* yer dat dar aint no supper, yer hyeerd dat.” 

“How come der aint no supper, Lindy?” 

“Kaser wouldn’t tek no supper w’en Miss Julia skuse 
me er tekkin dat sugar’n termattusses. Ainter gwineter 
’low no oomans, doan keer ef she is Miss Julia, ter say 
er tek sugar’n termattusses. Aint gwine back dar any 
mo’ neever. She kin git up an’ cook brekfus herse’f in 
de mawnin’, dis chile ainter gwineter do hit, an’ dat am 
de trufe, ef evvy er tol’ hit. Dunner wot gittin’ in dese 
w’ite folkses haid no how. Skuse me er tekkin sugar’n 
termattusses ! Dat sho am de limit.” 

“Wush yerder tuck dat supper fo yer git yer back up. 


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100 STORIES IN BLACK 


Iser gwineter de sto’ an’ gitter boxer sar-deens. Is yer 
got any braid, Lindy?” 

“Ainter crus’ er braid in dis house not ezzer knows 
of, an’ dat aint all, dar ainter gwineter be any effit fum 
Miss Julia.” 

“Wot dat yer got roll up in yer ap’n, Lindy? Hit look 
lak braid.” 

“Taint braid, er tell yer dat. Go on an’ git dem sar- 
deens. Er is gittin’ hongry. Miss Julia tuck mer appi- 
tite cl’ar out’n me.” 

“Wot dat yer got? Hit sho look lakker pone er 
braid.” 

“W’en yer skuse er pusson er stealing yer mout ez well 
steal, aint yer? Well, w’en Miss Julia skuse me er steal- 
in’ dat sugar’n termattusses, er jiss tuck ’em fur spite, 
an’ hyere dey is. Aint datter liT t’ing ter skuse er 
oomans er doin’? Hiter shame, dat wot hit am.” 

“Look hyere, Lindy, yer tek dem sugar’n termattusses 
right back ter Miss Julia in de mawnin. Dis hyere comin 
home dout supper doan soot dis chick’n. Er is sho sprise 
at yer ! Ef yer gwineter tek any t’ing, tek braid'n meat. 
Wot yer wants wid sugar’n termattusses ? Some wimmen 
aint got no mo’ sense danner junebug. Hyere er izzer 
doin’ widdout supper kase yer doan know de diffunce 
twix braid’n meat an’ sugar n termattusses !” 

“Ef yer doan go on an git dem sardeens er tek up 
sump’n an’ buss yer op’n. Yer izzer mos’ aggervatin’ 
mans ! Go git dem sar-deens, er tell yer.” 

“Er ainter gwine er step tell yer tell me dat yer gwine- 
ter tek dem sugar’n termattusses back ter Miss Julia. 
She doan knows yer got ’em?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


281 


“Cose she doan knows hit. She jiss skuse me er tek- 
kin ’em. Er kin sorter slippum back fo she eater brekfus, 
an’ dat jiss wotter gwineter do ef dat satterfy yer.” 

1 “Hit sho do. Now er gwineter git dem sar-deens.” 

That night Lige and Melinda supped on sardines with- 
out bread. The next morning Miss Julia found the right 
number of cans of tomatoes and an increase in the pile 
I of sugar, but she said nothing. She imagined that she 
had cured the cook of taking things, but if she had seen 
the extra amount of breakfast Melinda carried home that 
morning, she would have had a somewhat different opin- 
ion. Lige noticed it, but being as the breakfast was 
1 good, he didn’t have the heart to say anything about it, 

‘ especially as Melinda seemed to have suffered so much 
the night before. 

:r ! 

s THE WAIST-LINE PARTY. 

I When the boys and girls organized their social club, 
which they called the Yamacraw Yelpers, they unani- 
mously elected Minnie Lee Brown the president, with 
Gladys Jackson as the secretary and treasurer. 

■ r Last week they held a meeting at Liza Calhoun’s house 
and decided to give a birthday party for the benefit of 
old Aunt Cinda, who was abed with asthma. The car- 
rying out of the affair was entrusted to a committee com- 

II posed of the president, secretary and Emma Davis, the 
dressmaker’s delivery girl, with instructions to give a 

'' swell affair, regardless of expense, just so it didn't cost 
a ' more than four dollars, the amount in the treasury. 

When the committee met Emma Davis said that they 


282 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


must give something entirely new, something in the way 
of a surprise. This was agreed to, and Emma sought 
the advice of her employer. The lady for whom Emma 
delivers work had just read of the doing away of the 
waist-line, one of those freaks of fashion tha* slip in 
somehow. She read of how the waist-line would in the 
future be below the knees, and in a spirit of pure devil- 
ment she decided to have some fun. 

And now comes the party. 

Liza Calhoun gave up the use of her front room for 
the occasion. It was decorated with a little of every- 
thing green, and very profusely. Little Minnie Lee 
Johnson was placed at the door to collect the nickel ad- 
mission, and it was not long before the young people, 
with a sprinkling of the older ones, came sailing in. 
Among those of the older class was Minerva. 

“Fur de Ian’ er goodniss, wot kiner frock yer got on, 
chile? Is yer dun gone plum crazy? Look lak ter me 
yer got dat frock on upside downerds. Wot got in yer 
alls, any way?” Minerva was thunderstruck. She recog- 
nized Emma and then she sung out : 

“You de ones dat dun dis. You de berry ones. Dis 
some er yer doin’s. Jiss kase yer tote de frocks fur dat 
dressmaker wot yer wuks fur, yer t’ink yer mouty smart 
giftin'’ dese gals ter w’ar sich ondecent frocks lak dese. 
Hitter shame, dat wot hit is. Er is sho shamer yer.” 

Like a whirlwind in rushed Buckeye Bill, from Jack- 
sonville. 

“Say, you slabsides datter jukkin dat phonygraf over 
dar in de cornder, cut out dat hymn chune an’ guv us er 
two-stepper, kase we sho is gwineter shooker laig hyere 
dis night. Mer big toe jisser trimlin ter hitter two-step. 
Whar yer is, Gladys! Yer gwineter be mer fuss pod- 
ner.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


283 


Then for the first time, Buckeye saw Gladys in the 
new style dress with the lowered waist-line. 

“Fur de namer Yamacraw, wot dat yer got on, Gladys? 
Ef dat ain’t de limit. How yer spec me ter dancer two- 
step widyer wid dat crocus sack on? Tell me dat, an’ 
tell me inner^hurry. Yer spec me ter git down on mer 
knees ter grab yer roun’ de laigs ter dance wid yer? 
Come right hyere, Gladys, an’ lemme git close ter yer.” 

Buckeye fumbled around where the waist used to be, 
but the hold was unsatisfactory. He missed the small 
waist. Then he looked around the room and he saw 
Minerva, who was not in the young set, and who wore 
the old style dress. 

“Look hyere, Mernervy, me’n you sho gotter go dis 
two-step. Yer wais’es aint lakker kinnary bird, anner 
kaint cotch yer all de way roun’ de fuss lick, butter sho 
kin stan’ on de flo’ wid yer. De way dem gals got dem 
rags on er feller haster stan’ on he haid ter grab um 
roun’ de wais’es. ” 

In the meantime the other men sat around and never 
offered to ask any of the girls to dance. They seemed to 
regard the style as a little beyond them, and they pre- 
ferred to let the thing go by. Buckeye had his dance 
out, and when he seated Minerva she was blowing like 
la porpoise. It was about io o’clock when the party broke 
lup, four hours earlier than usual. This is how it hap- 
pened, as told by Emma to the dressmaker next morn- 
ing: 

“Clar ter goodniss, Miss Kate, er tol’ yer taint no use 
Iter try ter lun dese niggers nuffin. De mo’ yer try ter 
eddicate um, de mo’ yer mekker mess uvvit. Dar we gals 
wuz all dress up in dem lowdown wais’es jiss lak yer 
med um, an’ we dun our bestes ter mekkum know dat de 
noo style, but de fool niggers dey say dey ondecent. Dem 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


284 

ol’ wimmens dey sot roun’ an’ kepper sayin’ aint datter 
shame, an’ ez fur de mens, er clar ter goodniss, Miss 
Kate, dey jiss ack lakker fool. Dey say dey mout ez well 
try ter hugger fewer baid ez ter try ter dance widder 
gal wot got one er dem frocks on, cep’n he dance on he 
haid. Buckeye Bill, dat man wot got so much money fum 
Jacksons-villes, he hadter cut up. He grab dat Gladys 
Jackson ter go er roun’ dance, an’ he say, how yer spec 
me ter hoi’ yer up, Gladys, wid yer wais’es slip down ter 
yer laigs? All Gladys say wuz, dis is de lates’ style. 
Den Buckeye he say, doggone de style, gimme er oomans, 
doan gimme er cot’n mat’ress ! Den he sot Gladys down 
an’ he catch Mernervy — yer know dat big oomans Mer- 
nervy wot used ter cook in de rusteraw — wid he two 
han’s roun’ dat big waistes er hem, an’ dey sashayed 
roun’ de room er timer two, an’ evvy time dey hit de 
flo’ hit look lak de house gwineter fall down. Dat time 
Liza Calhoun she stop de phonygraf kase she say ef dey 
dance ergin dey haster call out de fi’mens. Den w’en de 
peoples seed dat dey warnt gwineter be any dancin’ an’ 
nuffin ter eat cep’n dese saltine crackers an’ sojy water, 
an’ all dey had ter do wuz ter sot roun’ an’ look atter 
passel er gals wid frocks on dat de mens say yer got in 
de wrong een fuss, evvyt’ing sorter slack up. Bimebye, 
w’en Mernervy got her win’ fum dancin’ wid Buckeye, 
she gapped lak she so sleepy, an’ fuss noos yer know 
Buckeye Bill he say, atter dis er gwineter de river an’ 
jump in whar er feller kin git he money wuff er ’cite- 
ment, an’ leave yer alls ter sot up de resser de night wid 
de daid mans. Cose dey wuzzun any daid mans, but dat, 
wot Buckeye say. Den de uvver folkses gin ter leave, 
an w’en de ten erclock bell strike, de party bruk up. ; 
Dem gals wot got de noo style frock on dey say, nevvy ; 
had so much fun sence er ben bawned. Nuvver one say. 


100 STORIES IN ELACK 


285 


er sho do ’spise er nigger, dey is so ignunt. An’ dat de 
reezin, Miss Kate, dat de party bruk up ber ten erclock. 
Yer mussent look fer er nigger ter inter iuce er noo style. 
Put dem frocks on some er dese w’ite gals an’ tell um 
dat hit de lates’ style, an’ de berry las’ one uvvum go 
plum crazy ’bout hit. Hit jiss lak Liza Calhoun say, er 
nigger ain’t got much wais’es no how, an’ w’en yer shift 
hit down ter dey knees de mens aint got no fuwer use 
fer yer. Hitter shame fur niggers ter be so ignunt.” 

It is safe to say that there will be no change in the 
waist line, so far as the ladies of Yamacraw are con- 
cerned. 


THE TRAINMAN’S REVENGE. 

Two tramp negroes crawled into an empty freight car 
somewhere about Atlanta, and some trainman uninten- 
tionally closed the car. They came on down toward 
Macon, and the conductor, knowing nothing of his will- 
ing and yet unwilling passengers, did not offer to let 
them out at the eating houses. 

Somewhere along the line, these passengers not being 
able to see through the door which was locked, could 
form no idea of the points of interest in passing, but 
any way, somewhere along they grew hungry. The 
more they talked and thought of their situation the 
deeper went the fangs of hunger. 

“Er chick’n pie sho would go mouty well now.” 

“Er er piece er braid,” said Bill. 

“Er would lak ter sot down ter er baiter poke chops 
jisser ’bout now. Er sho would lick dem bones,” said 
Andy. 

“Jiss gimme er hunker co’n braid,” said Bill. 


280 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 

“Er wouldn't kyeer ef hit er gre’t big juicy beefsteak 
all kivver wiv onions anner piler gravy.” 

“Poner braid good nuff fur me,” said Bill. 

“Some good ol’ country sossidge dat gotter plenty sage 
an’ red pepper in ’em, de kine dat ben hung up ter dry 
an’ git sorter crackly,” persisted Andy. 

“Jisser crusser braid do me,” said Bill. 

“Some spar’ ribs widder lotter meat on ’em aint so 
bad.” 

“One er dese yer sody crackers’ll do me good,” said 
Bill. 

“Er mout mek out wid some back-bone, an’ dumplin’s 
go mouty well, effer mek no mistake.” 

“Co’n hoecake fur me,” said Bill. 

“Did yer evvy eat any fried tripe, Bill? Yer roll hit in 
meal dus’ an’ fry ’em in hot fat. Hit sho good.” 

“Nickel loafer braid tas’e good ter me,” said Bill. 

“Wot dey calls er beef stoo go mouty fine w’en yer 
hongry.” 

“Some er dis rye braid am bettern nuffin,” said Bill. 

“Er always did lak hash efyer know how ter disher up. 
Yer wants dead loads er onions an' plenty salt’n pepper 
in hash, an’ yer wants it greasy. Dis dry hash aint 
good.” 

“Jiss keep on, jiss keep on, er aint got much longer 
ter live no how. Tol’ yer datter piecer braid, some braid 
jiss dry so, all er wants in dis wul,” said Bill. 

“Yer is sho bughouse, man. Dis de way er keep fum 
gittin hongry. Er kin jiss tas’e dem t’ings wotter ben- 
ner talk’n ’bout. Er furgit dat er loves ham. Good o Y 
ham wid red gravy fur yer ter sop yer braid in. Hit 
.sho good.” 

“Dun tol’ yer ter shot yer mout’, anner ainter gwineter 
tell yer mo’n fo time mo’,” said Bill. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


287 


“Yer is sho crazy. Evvy time yer stop me fum t’inkin 
’bout all dem £Ood t’ings er gits reel hongry. Lemme 
lone, man. Effer jiss hadder hambug steak widder ’bout 
er dozen hard-biled aigs anner cupper cawfee. Dooz 
yer lak sugar in yer cawfee, Andy?” 

“Ef dat aint de limit ! Ef yer sayes ernuvver wud ter 
me ’bout vittles er is shot gwineter tie up wid yer,” said 
Bill. 

“Yer haster skuse me, Andy, er jiss ax yer ef yer lak 
sugar” 

Later on the train stopped and the stop was so long 
the two hungry negroes concluded they were in Macon. 
They had figured up the consequences, every one of 
which meant something to eat. If they went to the city 
prison or to the chaingang, they would get something to 
eat. If allowed to go free they would get something 
i somehow, some way. Then it was that they banged on 
the car door from within. The banging was heard, and 
j the door was unlocked. The trainman who did the un- 
| locking saw two badly bunged up negroes, lean and 
gaunt. Their appearance aroused his sympathies, and he 
slipped them out of the railroad yard and through the 
| alleys to Millie Harris’s restaurant. He owed Millie a 
grudge. She had dunned him in public, and while he 
had afterward paid her he secretly resolved to get even. 
| He left the two men on the outside while he went into 
the restaurant. 

“Millie, er got two frens dat jiss come in on de train 
|an’ dey hongry. Tek dis haffer dollar an’ gin um er 
good supper. Am hit er trade?” 

“Cose hit er trade ! Fotch um erlong. Er sho gi’ um 
!er good supper.” 

The trainman called to the two men and enjoined them 
to eat hearty. No such injunction was necessary. The 


288 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


two men entered and took their seats at the table. Millie 
hovered over their shoulders to take the order. 

“Wot will you gentlemens wants fur yer supper?” 

“Bring mer er briled mule an’ some sossidge, an’ some 
poke chops, an’ some beefsteak, an’ onions, an’ some ham- 
bug steak, an’ some tripe, an’ some chitlin’s, an’ some 
hammun aigs, an’ some chick’n pie, an’ some spar’ ribs, 
an’ some backbone an’ dumplin’s, an’ some er wot else 
yer got, an’ brung hit right now. Wot yer wants, Bill, 
tell de lady wot yer wants.” 

“Gimmie er piecer braid,” said Bill. 

Millie of course thought they were joking, but she hur- 
ried about and had a good-sized pile of supper ready in 
what seemed to the men to have been an age. Then the 
two sailed in. To make a long story short, they cleaned 
that up in short order, and called for more. In spite 
of all Millie could do or say they ate up five or siz dol- 
lars worth of her stuff, and cleaned out the restaurant. 
It was such a hurricane job that Millie was dazed. All 
she could do was to bow to the inevitable. She pretended 
as though she didn’t care, and when they had eaten 
everything eatable she brought a soup bowl with some 
water to be used as a finger bowl, and laid a couple of 
toothpicks in front of them. Then the twain walked 
out with the inner man fully satisfied. Outside they met 
the trainman. 

“Dunno wot yer name is mister, but wese fum Noo 
Yawk, an’ we kim ter dis town ter put up er money 
fac’ry. Come roun’ ter seed us, an’ we sho gi’ yer de 
fuss job. Dis yer Macon is sho er good town.” 

But the trainman had had his revenge on Millie, and 
he was as well satisfied as his two new friends. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


289 


FATTY FAN’S MISTAKE. 

There was an animated meeting- of the Colored Cooks’ 
Club in the Yamacraw auditorium Sunday night. 

This club holds its meetings on Sunday nights, be- 
cause this is the only night they have for themselves, and 
they endeavor to transact all the business of the previous 
week, and for the coming week, in this one night. 

The meeting was called to order by Fatty Fan, who 
cooks for a big boarding house. 

“Dis meetin’ is ready fur bisniss,” she said after 
the sentinel had made the rounds and found that all pres- 
ent were duly qualified to remain, “an’ ef any yer ladies 
got anyt’ing ter say, yer is welcome to spit hit right out.” 

“Mister Pres’dent, er wants ter know ef dar is any 
lady in dis meetin’ dat evvy dun any cookin* fur Miz Jin- 
kins, wot live on de hill.” 

Several women held up their hands. 

“Er wants ter ax yer wot mek yer lef’ dar?” It was 
Henrietta Harris who wanted the information. 

“Mister Pres’dent, er lef’ dar kaser ’bout ter starve. 
Dat wotter lef’ dar fur,” said one. 

“Er lef’ dar kase dat w’ite oomans spec me ter live on 
one biskit anner sopper gravy an’ some cawfee groun’s. 
Dat wot mek me leave,” said another. 

“Er lef’ kase she skuse me er tekkin er dusser flour 
w’enner didn’t tek dat flour no mo’n you did. Dat wotter 
lef’ dar fur,” said another. 

“Datter nuflf,” said Henrietta, “now er moves dat Miz 
Jinkins’ name go on de blackbode.” 

“Mister Pres’dent, de lady ought er tell dis meetin’ 
wot mekker moves ter put dat ooman’s name on de black- 
bode,” said a member. 

“Sister Henr’etta aint sayed so, but yer all ought ter 


290 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


knowd dat de reezin dat she wants dat w’ite oomans’ 
name put on de blackbode is kase she didn’t gi’ her auff 
ter eat. Didn’t yer hyeerd Sister Angy an* Sister Sukey 
an’ Sister Emmerline tell yer dat she starve urn ter deff ?” 

“Er rules,” said the president, “dat Sister Henr’etta 
ainter bleeged ter tell her reezin’ fur mekkin de move, 
cep’n she want ter. De by-law say any sister in good 
stan’nin’ kin mekker moshun dout tellin’ wot mekker mek 
de move. Yer is out’n awder, Sister Norcross. Yer all 
hyeerd de moshun er Sister Henr’etta dat de name er 
Miz Jinkins go on de blackbode. Yer alls dat favor de 
moshun, say eye.” 

There were four ayes given with a shout. The four 
had evidently calculated on a large affirmative vote and 
wanted to swell the chorus. Even the president was 
surprised. 

“Did yer alls knowed wot yer votin’ on ? Look lak yer 
dunno wot yer votin’ on, anner put de moshun ergin. 
Alls in favor uv Sister Henr’etta’s moshun ter put dat 
w’ite oomans name on de blackbode, say eye.” 

There were only three ayes this time, and they were 
mildly voted. Again the president explained what the 
motion was, and again she called for a vote. This time 
there was only two ayes. The president was puzzled. 
There was something wrong. Evidently there was some- 
thing at work that was cutting down the vote, but she 
was determined to see the thing through. She put the 
motion again and there was only one vote in favor. 
This one vote was cast by a little dried up woman who 
wore great old-fashioned spectacles. The president ad- 
dressed her. 

“Sister Sarah, de pres’dent aint got no right ter mek 
dese people vote lak dey doan want ter vote, but you’n 
me de only one in dis meetin’ dat got any sense. Ei; 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 291 

want dat w’ite oomans name on de blackbode, kase 
yer hyeerd all dem sisters wot used ter cook fur her say 
she starve um mouty nigh ter deff ? An’ w’en hit come 
ter er show down yer is de onlies’ one dat got san’ nuff 
in yer gizzard ter stan’ up an’ vote lak yer oughter. 
Now er puts de moshun on tuvver side. Alls dat ergin 
de moshun, say no.” 

There was a big chorus of noes, loud and strong. The 
president was thunderstruck. She couldn't understand it. 
She was hoppin’ mad. 

“Dis sho beat mer time ! Wot de namer de Lawd got 
in you fool niggers ter-night? Izyer alls dun gone 
crazy? Er jiss wants some er yer ter tell mer wot got 
in yer.” 

“Ef yer lemme, mebbe er kin splain hit ter yer,” said 
Martha Ann, who was slated for the next presidency, 
“an’ hit is dis way. ’Memmer w’en Sister Calline’s ol’ 
mans got cotch twix de cyars, an’ dey tuck him ter de 
hosspittul, an' kep’ him dar so long, an' den dey tuck 
him home whar he stayed on Calline’s han’s so long? 

I Well, who sont him er lotter chick’n soup evvy day? 
Who went dar an’ look atter him lakker he wuzzer w’ite 
mans? Who ’low Calline ter git off evvy day atter she 
clean up de dinner dishes an’ teller she needn’t come 
back tell de nex’ mawnin so she could stay dar an’ wait 
on her ol’ mans? Nobody but Miss Jinkins, dat who. 
An’ dat de reezin wese ainter gwineter vote ter put her 
name on de blackbone, ef yer bleeged ter know.” 

There were several to say “ain’t dat de trufe,” and 
Fatty Fan saw her chances of re-election dwindle away 
like snow in a hot sun. And this goes to show that in 
some ways the negro appreciates a kindness as well as 
some white folk. 


292 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


THE EMPIRE GOWN. 

Emma Johnson is the delivery girl for a white dress- 
maker. This gives her an opportunity to keep up with 
the fashions, and for this reason she is the envy of the 
other girls. In fact, Emma sets the style for the girls in 
Tybee, where she lives. If a new frock or a gown 
strikes the city, Emma is the one to put one on first, and 
then the others copy it as far as possible. 

One of those who envy Emma, but who never lets 
Emma get ahead of her, is Gladys Jackson. She had 
seen Emma on the Sunday previous and had taken note 
of the style of her attire, and this information was aug- 
mented by seeing the same kind of a dress worn down 
town by the ladies out shopping. Not being on speaking 
terms with Emma, she was thrown on her own resources 
as to how it should be made. She wore it to church for 
the first time yesterday. 

“Fur de namer heb’n wot dat Gladys got on? Nevvy 
seed sicher frock ez dat in all mer bawn days, er sho 
nevvy did. Wot kiner t’ing dat is, honey ?” This was 
asked by Maria, who never attempts anything but plain 
clothes. 

“Dat wot yer call er umpire gown, an’ hit de latist 
style,” said Emma, “an’ Gladys musser med hit herse’f, 
but me’n her doan speak, an’ yer mussen’ say er to 1’ yer.” 

“Dey sho name hit right. Hit sho rnekker look lakker ;■ 
baseball bat. An’ dat wot yer caller umpire gown. 
Well !” 

“Er got one merse’f, butter hyeerd Mary Harris say 
Gladys gwineter w’ar one ter-day, anner lef’ mine at 
home. Hit fur slim wimmens. Miz Kate wotter wuks 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 293 

fur say dat er fat oomans got no bisniss wid one, kase 
hit is ter gitter toob effect.” 

'‘Wot yer mean ber dat, honey? Wot yer call er 
toob ?” 

“Lakker stovepipe, straight up’n down, all de same 
size clean up. Dat wot dey means,” said Emma, who 
prided herself on information from her employer. 

“Hit ter mekkum look lakker stovepipe. An’ dat de 
reezin dey fur de slim gals. Den effer git one hit mek 
me look lakker one er dese smokestacks. Er fat oomans 
ain’t got much showin’ dis wul, no how. Doan kyeer 
wot yer put on um dey looker sight. All dey good fur 
is ter cook an’ sot roun’. Er izzer gwineter ax Gladys 
whar she git dat frock.” 

Maria waddled over to where Gladys was displaying 
the charms of her empire gown, and she was explaining 
that it required so many yards of cloth and so on, when 
Maria loomed up. 

“Fur de luvver goodniss, Gladys, whar yer git dat 
poorty frock? Hit sho am fine. Who sont dat ter yer, 
Gladys?” 

“Nobody nevvy sont hit ter me. Er med hit merse’f, 

! wid mer own two han’s, dat wotter dun.” 

“Hush ! Yer mek dat ber yer lone se’f ! Yer sho izzer 
, smot gals. Wot yer call hit, honey?” 

“Disser umpire gown, an’ hit de lass style fum Noo 
[ Yawk.” 

“Well, er’ll be doggone ! Come fum Noo Yawk ! Hit 
i sho fit yer mouty quick. Tu’n roun’, Gladys, lemme seed 
how hit fityer in de back. Ain’t de waistes mouty high 
! in de back ?” 

. “Dats de way dey mekkum, Aunt Maria. Ef yer tek 
i notice, de waistes come up sorter high in front too.” 

“Hit sho do. Hit look lak yer ain’t gotter nuff clofi 




294 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


fur de waistes, an’ yer got to much fur de skut, an’ yer 
ain’t got time ter cut hit out ergin. How much er frock 
lak dat sot yer back, Gladys?” 

“Er git de cloff fur sebbun dollars, an’ de linin’ fur ; 
ernuvver dollar, an’ de trimmin’s an’ de buttons an’ de 
fred — hit cos’ me ’bout ten dollars.” 

“Ten dollars ! Ten dollars fur er frock lak dat ! Mer 
goodniss, honey, whar yer git all dat money? Izyer 
gwineter git marrit?” 

“Cose er ain’ter gwineter git marrit. Mer par gimme 
dis fur er buffday present.” 

“An’ yer par dun dat. He gi’ yer ten dollars fur ter 
buyed er frock lak dat, an’ he er owin’ me er dollar’n half t, 
sence Chrismus fur some aigs. Er sho will seed yer par 
ter-morrer. Datter nice come-off. Yer par er dishin’ \ 
out ten dollars fur er umpire gown wot mek yer look 
lak one er dese yer ball bats, kase yer ain’t nuffin but 
skinn’n bone, an’ he er owin’ me dot dollar’n ha’f. Dun- 
no wot got inter dese niggers no how. Look lak all dey 
study ’bout is ter beat de po’ widders out’n wot liT 
money dey kin save up. Er sho gwineter seed yer par,” 
Maria was warm. 

“Er gwineter tell yer de trufe ’bout dis gown, Aunt 
Maria. Dis gown is de one dat wuz made fur Miz Jin- 
kins, wot live on de hill, but dey made hit too li’1’ fur her, 
an’ she couldn’t git in hit, an’ she gi’ hit ter me. Yer 
knows mer par ain’t got no ten dollars ter buyed er 
gown fur me.” Gladys was fleeing from the wrath to 
come. 

“Er is sho gwineter seed yer par an’ mek him pay me 
mer money. Ef he gotter gal dat kin flounce roun’ Ty- 
bee widder umpire gown on, he sho got ter pay me dat 
dollar’n ha’f wot he benner owin’ me sence Chrismus.” 

And thus was the dream of Gladys shattered. Her 




100 STORIES IN BLACK 


295 


day’s happiness was gone. Instead of being envied, she 
was now pitied, the worst punishment that can be visited 
on a woman in a new dress. 


IF I WERE PRES’DENT. 

A number of draymen were sunning themselves yes- 
terday while waiting for customers. They had eaten 
their dinners, and this was the hour when there is very 
little doing. Here is what they were talking about: 

“Dey tell me dat dis is de day w’en Mister Taf’ 
gwineter be ’lected pres’dent.” 

“Wot yer talkin’ ’bout, Bill, doan yer know he dun ben 
’lected w’en he run ergin dat man Brine? Dis is de day 
w’en dey put de crown on he haid, er do sump’n ter him, 
er dun furgit wot hit is, but hit sump’n yer gotter do 
widder pres’dent on de fofer March.” 

“ ’Tain’t bovrin’ me none. Jiss soon Brine be pres’dent 
ez Mister Taf’. Dey dun run us niggers out any way, 
an’ wese ain’t got no mo’ showin’ danner jack rabbit. 
Riccolic, Uncle Peter, how dey used ter come atter us 
an’ mek out wese de biggis peoples in de wul ! Riccolic 
how de used ter tek on erbout us? Way back yander 
ef Mister Taf’ ben erlected he dun sont us er invite ter 
come ter Wash’nton on de fuss train ter be he guess. 
Butter tek notice he ain’ter sen’in’ no invites roun’ now. 
He ain’ter bovrin ’bout us niggers. But dey say he er 
mouty nice man.” 

Yer reckin he izzer gwineter fotch licker back ? Dey 
tells me dat he gwineter mek good times come ergin, 
anner doan see how he gwineter do dat cep’n he bring 
licker back. Ef he ain’ter gwineter do dat, hit doan mek 
no diffunce who de pres’dent. He ain’t no better’n dat 
mans Brine, ef he kain’t bring de licker back.” 


296 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Wot’d yer do, Tom, ef yer wuz de pres’dent? an’ all 
yer hadter do ef yer wants anyt’ing izter wave yer han’ !” 

“Er jiss wave mer han’ anner say, Bill! Anner say, 
Isham. Anner say, Dick ! Anner say, Lige ! Anner say, 
John ! An’ den alls er yer would say, hyeer er is, Mister 
Pres’dent. Denner calls de mans wot run de guv’ment 
printin’ office, anner say, Mister Money-mans, how much 
money yer got on han’ dis mawnin’? Mister Money- 
mans he say, er gotter ’bout fo million dollars in de long 
green, anner gotter ’bout ten millions in gol’, an’ er dunno 
how much silver, kase er ain’t had time ter count hit dis 
mawnin’, butter rickon er gotter nuff ter las’ me fur ter- 
day. Denner say, kin yer spar’ dese frenner mines 
erbout er million er piece dis mawnin’ an’ have er nuff 
lef ter buy de dinner wid? He say, er mout, Mister 
Pres’dent. Denner wave mer han’ anner say, so long 
boys, be good.” 

“Wot yer do, Lige, ef yer wuz de pres’dent?” 

“Er jiss wave mer han’ anner say ter de cook, wot yer 
gwineter gi’ me fur dinner ter-day? An’ he say, some 
frickersee orsters wid termattus sass, some pumperno 
fish, fried wid musher rooms, some debbul crarbs wid de 
shell on um, some chocklit ice cream, some er dis stinkin’ 
cheese, an’ er botler wine fo hunnerd year ol’. Denner i 
say, efyer do er sho sont yer ter de chaingang. Yer go ‘ 
down ter de markit an’ yer buyed me some blue stem 
collards, some rooty beggar tunnips, er nice beef roas’ an’ 
buncher mullet anner botler bear. Dat wotyer do.” 

“Wot yer do, John?” 

“Er wave mer han’ anner totch de button anner calls ] 
de mans dat sen’ out de gyarden seed, anner say, how 
much cot’n seed yer got on han’ dis mawnin’ ? He say, 
fi’ million bushels, ’cordin’ ter de las’ count. Denner 
toch de button an’ calls fur de mans wot got charge er de 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


297 


wile Ian’ anner say, is yer counted up yer spar tan’ dis 
mawnin’? An’ he say, dar izzer nuff lef on de map ter 
mek fo states out’n uv. Denner calls yer alls up anner 
say, jiss guv dese frenner mines ernuff Ian’ ter mekker 
county fur um erpiece, an’ sen’ um cot’n seed ernuff ter 
plant de lan’.” 

“Wot yer say ’bout hit, Dick?” 

“Er wave mer han’ anner calls up mer pri-vit seccer- 
terry, anner say, is any ladies call ter see me dis maw- 
nin’ ? An’ he say, de backyod luller’n hit kin hoi’. Er 
say, is dar any poorty ones in de bunch ? He say dey is 
two uv dem dat is sho er peach. Er say, dey ain’t but 
two? He say, dey is sebbun uvvum dat got dese umpire 
gowns on, butter doan spec yer wants dem. Denner say, 
is dey got anyt’ing on sides de umpire gown? An’ he 
say, dey got on dese hyere Mary widder hats. Denner 
wave mer han’ anner say, fotch um in. Denner pick out 
de Hkelies’ gal in de bunch, anner calls yer alls in. Den- 
ner say, ladies, lemme inter juce yer ter some frenner 
mines fum Macon, Georgy, de bestist town datter got on 
mer lis\ Dey uster drivver dray fo er got ’lected, but 
dey is gwineter live on hog’n hom’ny fum dis time on. 
Ef any yer wants er good ol’ mans ter tek keer yer, yer 
kin tek yer pick.” 

“Wese ain’t hyeerd fum yer, Uncle Peter. Wot yer 
do ef you wuz de pres’dent?” 

j “Er jiss wave mer han’ sorter slow lak, anner calls 
[um alls up. Er say, dooz yer alls know whar Macon, 
iGeorgy is? Denner wants yer all ter do jiss ’zac’ly wot- 
iter tellyer. Er wants fo-teen tooris’ hotels, an’ evvy one 
luwum ter costes er million dollars. Denner wants er 
!noo cyar shed dat costes er million dollars. Denner 
wants yer to lay down pave-ment on all de streets, an* 
jdoan yer furgit Tybee and Yamacraw. Denner wants 


298 


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yer ter lay er cyarpit down on de park on Poplar street 
fur de country teams. Denner wants yer ter shot up de 
blin’ tigers cep’n dey keep good licker.” 

About this time there was a shout for a drayman from 
one of the stores, and the conversation, being disturbed, 
was turned on other lines. 


THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 

1 As if it had sprung up during the night, as a mush- 
room, there was a structure on a vacant lot in Tybee the 
other day, that was unique in architecture and appear- 
ance. It was shaped something after the manner of a 
tent, and was made of old cast’ofif tin roofing that was 
rumpled and crumpled, and probably would have leaked 
but for the rags that were spread at intervals over the 
sides. 

Hanging from the front was a sign. This was made 
of the side of a box on which had been branded the name 
of the contents, and somebody of an inventive turn and 
a touch of humor, had added a few words, for the sign 
read: 

SAL SODA, 

Tell Yer Forchin. 

The children in the neighborhood crowded around, 
now and then one of them running away to tell and 
bring some woman or child to see the thing. It was the 
one thing looked at and the one thing talked about all 
day. Nobody could make it out until Gladys Jackson 
came along, and she said that “Miss Sal Sody gwineter 
tell forchins, dat all hit is.” Then the people understood. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


299 


That night a bent-over, female figure, wrapped in an 
old shawl which covered the head, came up to the tent, 
around which quite a crowd had gathered, and took her 
seat in the back part of the improvised tent. It was not 
long before there was a customer. 

Fatty Fan, who was anxious to know what her chances 
were for re-election as president of the Consolidated 
Colored Cooks Club, was the first to enter and place a 
quarter in the outstretched palm of the sorceress. There 
was a dim light inside the tent, and with the apparently 
old woman crouched in the corner and in a queer sort of 
voice, a shaky sort of feeling was produced. Looking 
down at Fatty’s paw, and shuffling a greasy pack of 
cards, the sorceress thus told Fatty’s fortune: 

“Er see er big crowder people inner room. Dey smell 
lak ham’n aigs an’ onions. Dey lak dey is cooks. Dey 
look lak dey gwineter do sump’n. Dey izzer movin’ ’bout 
de room. Dey is puttin’ er lotter pieces er paper inner 
box. Dey izzer reedin’ names on dem papers. Den deys 
all holler hooray fur Fatty! Dat all er kin hear, deys 
mekkin so much fuss. Dey pick upper gre’t big oomans 
an’ dey tuck an’ put her inner big cheer, an’ now she 
mekkin er speech, butter doan know wot she say’n dey is 
mekkin so much fuss er huggin’ her an’ ca’an on so.” 

“T’ank de Lawd,” said Fatty, as she arose to go. She 
rushed out of the tent into the waiting crowd, and as 
she went along she was heard to say: “Dat oomans 
ain’t no oomans, she er ainjil, dat wot she is, kase she 
sho know evvyt’ing. She sho do.” 

That was enough. It was a fight after that to get in. 
Among those who struggled in was Minerva. 

“Er see er long tall nigger widder liT w’isker on he 
chin, an’ seem lak dey call him Jim. De kyeerds ain’ter 


i 


300 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


movin’ pyeert ter-night, butter see dis mans wot dey call 
Jim walkin’ down de alley. Er see er mouty poorty gal 
walkin’ wid him. She er snigglin’ close up ter he side, 
an’ de is talk’n mouty low. Er kain’t hyeer wot she 
sayin’, but er hyeer him say, doggone Mernervy, er sho 
is ti’ed er dat oomans. Dunno who he mean ber Mer- 
nervy, kase er izzer stranger roun’ hyere. She say 
sump’n low ergin, anner hyeer him say, shot yer mout’ 
’bout Mernervy, she er no ’count oomans. De kyeerds 
izzer gittin’ dim, an’ yer haster come back anner finish 
up tellin’ yer forchin.” 

But Minerva had heard enough, and there was fire in 
her eye. She had long suspected Jim, and here was the 
proof. She answered none of the questions asked by 
the crowd, but made a beeline for home — and Jim. 

Whispering Annie was next. 

“Er see er crowd er mens an’ dey look lak dey wukkin 
on de street, kase dey all got picks an’ shovels in dey 
han’s. Some uvvum got chains on dey laigs. Ber de 
side uvvum izzer w’ite mans widder gun dat look lak hit 
mouty hebby ter tote. Now er see er pen, or sump’n 
lakker pen, anner lotter wimmens in hit an’ dey look lak 
dey is cookin’ dinner, mebbe fur de mens. Er hyeers 
one er dem wimmens say, whar yer reck’n ol’ Wisprin’ 
Annie gone ter ? Den dey alls laugh fit ter kill deysevves.' 
Er hyeer one er de wimmens say, she gwineter come back 
nex’ week, de poleeces say she runnin’ er blin’ tiger. 
Cose er doan know dis W’isp’rin Annie, kase er izzer 
stranger in dis town, but dey sho got hit in fur her w’en 
she come back, dat wot dey say.” 

“Dem kyeerds say er run er blin’ tiger?” she whis-j 
pered. 

“Cose dey dooz! See dis yer spade an’ dis j acker 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 301 

demon’s ! W’en de tray er spades an’ de j acker di’mon’s 
run tergevver disser way, dat mean er blin’ tiger. ,, 

Whispering Annie was mad. She couldn’t well get 
mad with the fortune-teller, but she was made with some- 
body. As she shot out of the tent she ran against Buck- 
eye Bill, and he was loaded for bear. 

“Wot yer means ber breshin’ ergin me datter way, yer 
ol’ chaingang heffer?” 

Annie wanted nothing better as an excuse for fighting. 
She came out of the tent mad, and to be reminded of the 
chaingang by being called a chaingang heifer was the 
limit. The crowd got out of the way to give room for 
the combatants, and the fight raged. About this time 
Minerva walked up. She had just finished with Jim, and 
she was wanting more blood. Seeing the fight between 
Buckeye Bill and Annie, and learning that it grew out 
of something told in the tent, she took up the notion that 
the fortune teller was not straight, and while Buckeye 
iBill and Annie were pulverizing each other, she sailed 
into the tent. She made a grab for the fortune teller, 
and off came a big bundle of horse hair that had been 
doing duty as a wig. Then she made another grab for 
the wool, and yanked the sorceress out of the tent, pull- 
ing off the shawl and exposing the well-known features 
of Slowfoot Sal. 

Sal had disguised herself, and had been coining the 
money. When she regained her feet, she shook four 
dollars in the faces of the crowd and was ready for a 
fight. As Sal has the reputation of whipping four men 
and a policeman in one fight, there was no one to accept 
her challenge of “er jiss dar’ yer ter totch me,” but her 
(occupation was gone. 


302 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


THE OLD COUPLE. 

Old Jim was smoking his pipe by the little fire that the 
cold drop of the mercury brought about the other night, 
and he was thinking. He had been saving up some 
money, a few dollars, but to him a fortune, and after 
the manner of the white folks, he wanted to give his wife 
a birthday present. He had not the remotest idea of the 
date, nor how old she was, and this puzzled him how to 
get at it, the present being intended as a surprise. He 
smoked on in silence and thinking how he could get the 
information without letting Nancy know what he was 
up to. 

“Nancy, how ol’ yer par w’en he die?” 

“Lor’, Jim, hit ben so long ergo datter dunno, butter 
hyeer some uvvum say dat he mouty nigh er hunnerd.” 

“How ol’ yer mar w’en she die?” 

“She mouty nigh ez ol’ ez par. 01’ missus had hit 
writ down in de Bible, but dar ain’ no tellin’ whar dat 
Bible is now. Er wunner whar dat Bible !” 

Jim smoked on. So far his plan had failed to bring ; 
the information. 

“How ol’ yer wuz w’en yer par die?” 

“Er wuzzer liT gal in shawt frocks w’en mer par die. 
Er memmer dat.” 

“How ol’ yer wuz w’en yer mar die?” 

“Wot yer mean, mans, ber axin me all dat? How yer 
spec me ter memmer all dat? Wot yer stud’n ’bout, 
no how?” 

“Jiss stud’n ’bout how ol’ us gittin’. How longs us 
ben marrit?” 

“Wot de namer de Lawd got in yer, Jim ? Yer knows 
dat goods er do. Effer mek no mistook, wese ben mar- ; 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


303 


rit — hit wuz j is fo de war enned. Doan yer member de 
sojers come ter de house an’ ol’ missus gi’ um sump’n 
t eat, an’ dey sayed me’n you wuz de lakliess couple dey 
evvy seed? Er jiss knows yer memmer dat?” 

“How ol’ yer wuz den?” 

“Jiss lissun er de mans. Er wuz sixteen year ol’, dat 
how ol’ er wuz, kase ol’ missus say so. Er wuzzer look- 
in’ right atter w’en she say so. Er hyeerder say dat wid 
mer own two years. Er sho did.” 

Jim tried mental arithmetic. Nancy was sixteen years 
old when she married. If he could only figure out how 
long they had been married he would get at her birth- 
day. 

“Wuz yer bawn in hot wevver er col’ wevver?” 

“Dar sho sump’n on yer mine dis night. How yer spec 
me ter memmer effit hot wevver er col’ wevver? Yer 
gittin’ so ol’ dat yer gittin’ foolish lak. Er hyeerd mer 
mar say one time dat er wuzzer Chrismus gif’ ter par, 
so er spec hit musser ben col’ wevver. Dat hit ! Er wuz 
bawned on er Chrismus day. Er memmer hyeerin mar 
say dat. Hit sho wuz on er Chrismus day. 

As Chrismus was a long way off, this being only May, 
the present for a birthday was out of the question. This 
made more smoke as well as more study. 

“Wusher knowed how long us ben marrit.” 

“Look hyere, Jim Passmo’, sump’n sho er eatin’ uv yer. 
Yer wan’ ter know how ol’ mer par, den how ol’ mer mar, 
j den how ol’ er wuz w’enner git marrit, an’ den how long 
hit ben, an’ all dat — dar sho sump’n de matter wid yer. 
Is yer sick ?” 

But Jim didn’t answer. He was disappointed. He 
wanted to make Nancy a present, but it must be on her 
| birthday, or her marriage day, or on some anniversary 
'of something, he didn’t care much which. In the mean- 


304 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


time Nancy was doing some thinking. That Jim wanted 
to make her a present, never once entered her head. She 
finally took a notion that Jim was going to get a divorce, 
and the thought made her mad. 

“Jim Passmo’, er knows how ol’ er is, er is sixty-nine 
years ol’ de tenter dis monf, kase missus writ hit down 
on er scrapper paper, anner got hit in de clo’es chist, an- 
ner jiss tells yer right now, if yer fixin’ ter quit me, yer 
sho welcum ter go righter haid wid yer rat-killin’. Er 
ain’ too o 1’ butter kin mekker livin’ dout you. You un- 
nerstan’ dat?” 

Here was more trouble for Jim. With that outbreak 
from Nancy he was in a worse fix than before. He now 
knew that her birthday was in a few days, but since 
she talked that way he didn’t feel like he ought to give 
her the present. He smoked on. And while he smoked 
he looked back over the long years that she had been his 
partner. True, they had an occasional spat, but look at 
the long list of things she had done for him! At last 
he decided that unless he told of his plans she might take 
up her things and leave him in his old age. 

“Er gretter mineter slap yer jaw. Er wuz jisser tryin’ 
ter fine out w’en yer buffday, kaser gotter present fur yer 
anner jiss fixin’ ter s’prise yer. Dat all hit wuz.” 

“How come yer didn’t tell me dat fuss, honey? Come 
axin me dis, an’ axin me dat, an’ how er knowed wot yer 
got in yer haid? Yer sho gittin’ ol’ lak me, honey.” 

“Well, de furnchur mans gwineter brung yer er noo 
setter furnchur in de mawnin, an’ hit blong ter you an’ 
nobody else. Hit one er dese i’on baidstids wid brass 
knobs on de cornders, anner bero, anner dresser, an’ some 
cheers, anner gre’t big rockin’ cheer fur you an’ one fur 
me, anner washstan’, anner lotter t’ings dat go widder 
setter furnchur, an’ hit yer buffday present.” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


305 


“Fur de lanner Goshen! Yer is de besses ol’ mans in 
dis town, dat wot yer is, honey. Heap ruvver haves yer 
fur mer oP mans dan de biggist mans in dis towns. Yer 
sho am mer honey-bunch. Er sho gotter kiss yer fur dat 
furnchur.” 

The old couple were happy. 


THE PURE FOOD LAW. 




“Wot all dis yer hyeerin’ ’bout de pu’ fude law ?” asked 
Henry of the crowd of waiting draymen down at the cor- 
ner. 

“Spec hit sump’n else ergin de nigger,” said Jake, 
“dey alls de timer fix’n up sump’n ergin de nigger. Wot 
hit is, Bill?” 

“Mer li’P gal reed hit in de paper dat evvyt’ing gotter* 
be de rev’runt stuff fum dis on. Tek flour: Wot mek. 
flour so w’ite an’ fine is kase dey mix up dis w’ite chalk 
yer gits down hyere ter Dry Branch wid hit. De pu’ 
fude law say yer gotter tek dat chalk out’n hit now, an’ 
look how de pricer flour dun riz ! Hit gittin so high dat 
de nigger an’ de po’ w’ite trash gotter eat co’n braid ef 
dey eat any braid er tall. Tek sugar. Dey used ter mix 
san’ in de sugar, but de pu’ fude law say yer kaint do 
dat any mo’. Tek sardeens. Dey used ter sell dese min- 
ners an’ li’l’ harrins in cotton seed ile an’ calls um sar- 
deens so yer kin buyed um fur fi’ cent. De pu’ fude law 
say yer gotter sell de rev’runt sardeen hitse’f wot come 
fum somewhar way off yanner, an’ deys ain’ no mo’ fi’ 
cent sardeens. Dese yer meat mens used ter put some 
kiner stuff on de meat ter keep hit fum spilin, but de pu’ 
fude law dun putter stop ter dat, an’ ef deys doan sell 
yer good meat yer kin pote um ter de poleeces an’ iey 


306 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


tekkum up hyere ter de ’corder cote an’ dey sont um ter 
de gang. Tek mullet. Yer knows hower nigger do love 
mullet, an’ ef de mullet kiner ol’ hit doan mek much dif- 
funce. De pu fude law say effer mans sell yer ol’ mullet 
dey fine him er hunnerd dollars fur de fuss time, an’ ef 
he do hit ergin dey fine him mo’n dat. Dat de pu’ fude 
law,” said Bill. 

“Fur de lanner goodniss? Jiss lakker tol’ yer, ’tain’ 
nuffin but hitt’n at de nigger ergin. Wot dey wants ter 
do? Want er nigger ter buy shad an’ pumpno fish stid- 
der he faverit disher mullet? He gotter buy sho nuff 
sardeens dat cosses er quarter fur er box? Gotter 
sweet’n he coffee wid good sugar ! Kaint buyed no mo’ 
scrap meat? Wot dat noo law say ’bout ol’ sourbelly?” 

“Hit say dat effer mans sell yer sourbelly widder skip- 
per on hit dey tek him up an’ fine him.” 

“Dooz hit say nuffin ’bout co’n meal?” 

“Er mans kaint sell no co’n meal dout hit ’spected, an’ 
de ’specter put he tag on hit lak deys do de juanner 
sack.” 

“How ’bout ham’n aigs an’ chitlins an’ sossidge?” 
asked Pete. 

“Hit tek dem in, too.” 

“Possum’n taters?” 

“Dey in it jiss lak evvyt’ing else.” 

“Well, dat sho beat mer time. Do de pu’ fude law, ez 
yer calls hit, strack de water milyun an’ de blackberry 
an’ de rooty-beggars ?” 

“Hit sho do. Hit strack evvyt’ing wot yer eat an’ wot 
yer drink. Evvyt’ing gotter be pu’. Dat wot dey say.” 

“Who dun all dis? Who er gittin’ all dis up? Who at 
de haid uvvit ? Who mekkin any money out’n hit ? Who 
gittin’ er job out’n hit?” 

“Spec hit dese probashuns peoples,” said Jake, “dey is 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


307 


all de time stud’n up some debbul-ment. Look lak dey 
will lettus erlone some timer nuvver. Look lak dey is 
sho rubbin’ hit in. Dey gwineter keep on et dey fool- 
ishness tell fuss noos yer knows dar gwineter be trouble. 
Ef de nigger riz up by hese’f dey gits out dat gatlum 
. gun up dar ter de city hall an’ dey po’ inner barl er dem 
catridges, an’ dey tu’n hit loose an’ de nigger whar he 
! gone ? But dese probashuns people dey gwineter keep on 
wid dey debbul-ment tell de po’ w’ite trash gwineter riz 
I up, an’ he gwineter say, come on, nigger, an’ w’en de 
I nigger an’ po’ w’ite trash jine tergevver, den look out, 

. Mister Probashuns Mans ! Yer sho gotter git ter de tim- 
! ber den. Yer benner crowdin’ us long ernuff, an’ de 
wum tu’n. Wese tek dat gatlum gun fum de city hall an’ 
we po’ inner barl er dem catridges an’ we gwineter say, 
ef yer want ter pray, now de time. Tain’t gwineter be 
i nunner dese yer long prars in public neever. Hit gwine- 
ter be de pu’ fude prar, nuffin but de rev’runt stuff, kase 
yer time am sho come.” 

“Better mine how yer talk, Jake, some er dese pro- 
[bashuns gwineter hyeer yer.” 

“Doggone de probashuns. Ef we kin git de po’ w’ite 
trash wid us, er ain’ter skeerd er urn.” 

The pure food discussion was brought to a close by 
some one calling for a dray. 

SWALLOWED A LIGHTNING BUG. 

“Any you fellers reed in de paper whar er nigger tuck 
some er dese yer juanner sacks out’n er w’ite mans 
stable cross de river de uvver night, an’ mekker baid 
■j out’n urn an’ lay down ter smoker siggerroot an’ fall ter 


308 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


sleep an’ sot de sacks on fi’ an’ some people fine him 
mouty nigh bu’n up?” asked Henry of a crowd yesterday.^ 

“Mer liT gal reed sump’n lak dat dis mawnin. She 
say dat de nigger sot hese’f on fi’ wid de siggerroot. Isl 
dat de trufe?” asked one. 

“Cose it de trufe. Didn’t yer liT gal reed hit in de| 
paper? Wot yer reckon de paper gwineter say hit furl 
ef hit ain’ de trufe?” 

“Hit doan soun’ lakker nigger ter smoker siggerroot,, 
cep’n hit one er dese young bucks dat ain’ got no senseJ 
Ef hit wuzzer pipe hit mout soun’ right. Wot in de 
namer de Lawd de nigger want ter sot hese’f on fi’ fur? 
Yer know er nigger got mo’ sense dan dat, cep’n he 
drinkt dis blin’ tiger licker, an’ de paper doan say nuffin 
’bout dat.” 

“Dis nigger wot yer alls talkin’ ’bout wot sot hese’f oni 
fi’ mine me how oP Jim, dun furgit he uvver name, swal-j 
lerd er lightnin’ bug. Dis nigger Jim wuz de sleepyhaid-j 
itiss mans yer evvy seed in all yer bawn days, he shol 
wuz. One mouty col’ night we wuz all down ter de 
brickyod an’ wuz sott’n roun’ de fi’ sose we kin keep up 
de fi’ in de kill whar we wuzzer bu’nnin’ er killer brick. 
We singt some songs an’ we crack some jokes an’ we 
roas’ some taters, an’ atter w’ile de fi’ so good’n wawm 
we jiss nachly drap ter sleep cep’n Bill. Dis wuz Bill 
Pye, an’ he ain’ much uvver han’ ter sleep no how, an’ 
he keeper wake. Ol’ sleepy-haid Jim he drap off ter 
sleep fuss. Bill tell us alls erbout hit atter hit all over. 
Well, Bill he stan’ an’ look at Jim wid he mout’ wide 
op’n anner snorin’ ter beat de ban’. Bill he choog Jim in 
de rib an’ he say, Jim, shot yer mout’, yer gwineter swab 
ler one er dese hyere lightnin’ bugs ef yer doan mine. 
Jim he say, lemme lone. Wid dat he drap off ter sleep 
ergin an’ fuss noos yer know dar he mout’ wide op’n 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


309 


an’ runnin’ er saw mill anner strackin er knot evvy 
now’n den. Bill he look attus an’ he seed dat wese alls 
sleep. Dat de time ter do he debbul-ment. He gitter 
long stick an’ he sorter flatt’n de cen an’ he crope up ter 
de fi’ an’ he tekker liT bitty coaler fi’ ’bout bigser pea an’ 
he put hit on de flat een er de pole. Den he crope roun’ 
ter git fur nuff way fum Jim an’ Jim sawin’ de logs an’ 
strackin’ de knots, an’ he retch over an’ he drap dat hot 
i coaler fi’ in Jim’s mout’. Gen-telmens ! Yer talkin’ 
’bout strackin’ er knot! He sho stracker whole piler 
knots anner snag th’owed in. He jump erbout ten feet 
an’ made fur de water-buckit anner holrin out dat he 
swallerd er lightnin’ bug. He dun wake us all up wid 
he holrin lak somebody dun kill him, an’ we seed him hit 
de buckit er water. He tu’n de buckit up an’ he nevvy 
i tegg° tell h e drinkt up all de water. Bill he holler out, 
wotyer means mans ber drinkin’ up all our water? Jim 
say dat lightnin’ bug in mer stummick an’ er bleegd ter 
Ipo’ water on him ef he doan he bu’n up all mer in- 
sides. Bill he say spit hit out, yer ol’ fool. Jim he holler 
back, spit yer foot, er dun swaller him. Cose we didn’t 
seed nuffin’ ter laugh at lak Bill, kase we wuzzer sleep 
fw’en Bill drap de coaler fi’ down Jim’s th’oat, an’ Bill 
,he lit out down de railroad ter git fur nuff way ter have 
jhe laugh out. Hit wuz mo’n er mont’ fo Bill tell us ’bout 
'how Jim swaller de lightnin’ bug. An’ dat how come 
Jim ter spise er lightnin’ bug lak he do. He catch evvy 
lightnin’ bug he see an’ he th’ow um down on le groun’ 
an’ stomp um.” 

j “Did de coaler fi’ bu’n Jim much?” asked Henry. 

| “He couldn’t eat nuffin but pot licker for free weeks, 
!hit bu’n sicher hole in he th’oat.” 


310 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


MISS JACKSON HYPNOTISED. 


Jim Simmons’ boy, Pete, not long from college, hav- 
ing seen a professor of hypnotism at work in Macon for 
the past week, thought it a good thing in the way of 
making money. He gave out that there would be an 
exhibition in hypnotism at the school house in Tybee 
Saturday night. 

Being pay day, there was a good crowd present, men, 
women and children, all eager to know what hypnotism 
meant. Prof. Simmons, as he dubbed himself, made his 
appearance when the house was full, and prefaced the 
exhibition with the following explanation of hypnotism: 

“Hippertism is sump’n dat yer gotter be bawn wid. 
Hit mean dat one mans er heap stronger dan ernuvver in 
de brain. De mans widder strong brain kin do wot he 
please wid de mans wid de weak brain. W’en de Lawd 
mek mens he dish out de brains ’cordin ter how much 
he got on hand w’en yer bawn. Deni wot bawn on de 
fusser de wek dey git plenty brain. Dem wot bawn on 
Saddy, w’en de stock run down low, deys ain’ got much. 
Taint de Lawd’s fault, taint yo’ fault, hit kase de stock 
run down. Darfo, effer mans wot bawn on Monday 
teller mans wot bawn onner Saddy errer Sundy ter do 
sump’n, dat mans sho gwineter do hit ef he want ter er 
no. Dat wot hippertism is.” 

The explanation must have been satisfactory, there 
being no objection on the part of the audience. Then 
Pete called for subjects, but they were a little backward. 
Somebody spied Precious Jackson in the audience, and 
always glad of an opportunity to be in the limelight, and 
having on a new dress, she was prevailed on to take the 






100 STORIES IN BLACK 


311 


stage. Pete said something to her while waving his 
hands over her head, and Precious fell under the spell. 
Turning to the audience, Pete said : 

“Ladies’n gemmun, Miss Jackson is now hippertise. 
She do nuffin but wotter teller ter do, an’ she dunno wot 
dat is. Now, Miss Jackson, doan yer see hit rainin’? 
Riz yer umbersol. Yer mussun git wet.” 

Precious went through the motion of holding out her 
hand to feel the rain, then she raised the imaginary um- 
brella, then she gathered a handful of skirt and was 
ready for the shower. 

“Yer sho is gwineter git dat noo frock wet efyer doan 
mine,” said Pete. 

Precious must have thought so, too, for she hastily 
gathered another big handful of skirt and if the water 
had been a foot deep her dress would not have touched 
it. 

“Put down dat frock, Precious, ain’ yer shamer yer- 
se’f ; put dat frock down dis minnit, yer hyeer me !” It 
was Precious Jackson’s mar who shouted this to the 
daughter on the stage. But Precious was hippterised 
and was going to keep her dress from getting wet. Pete 
hastened to the rescue as he saw her mar making for the 
stage, and told Precious that the rain was now over. 
Down went dress and umbrella to the evident relief of 
her mar. 

“Now, Miss Jackson, wese inner succuss. Er is de 
ringmarster an’ you is de lady wot tu’n er summerset 
over de back er de camel. Hyere is de camel, now git 
ready ter tu’n de summerset.” 

Again Precious gathered her skirts so as to do as 
bidden, and up to the stage went her mar. 

“Look hyere, Pete Simmons, look lak ter me dat yer 
kin fine some uvver way er projickin wid dis gal cep’n 


312 


100 STORIES IN BtACK 


jukkin upper frock dat way. Ef yer mekker tu’n dat 
summerset er sho is gwineter buss yer wide op’n an’ yer 
mine wotter tol’ yer. Er is sho ti’eder dis foolin'. Come 
right down fum hyere, Precious. Disser shame de way 
yer ca’ain on fo all dese peoples. Come er tell yer!" 

“Dat all right, Miz Jackson," said Pete, “we is now 
gwineter do sump’n else. Now, Miss Jackson, we is 
gwineter tekker orterbeel ride. Tekker seat, Miss Jack- 
son, anner show yer how ter run de medsheen. Juk op’n 
de cylinder. Tu’n loose de cyarbernater. Totch up de 
sparker. Crank de speedermeter an’ letter fly." 

Precious went through all the motions as indicated by 
Pete, with her hands on an imaginary wheel, and this 
closed the performance so far as Precious was concerned. 
She was aroused by Pete, and rubbed her eyes and one 
would have thought she had just awakened from a trance 
sure enough. 

“Is dar anybody else in dis aujunce dat will come on 
de stage an' lemme try mer han’ on um?" asked Pete. 

There was no response. On Slowfoot Sal being sug- 
gested ,she said: “Yer muss be er fool ter ax me ter go 
up dar ter mekker ijit er merse’f anner ainter gwineter 
go, er tell yer dat right now." 

Fatty Fan was suggested. “Er is bigger nuff fool 
right now, dout gwine up dar ter ’low Pete Simmons ter 
mess wid me datter way." 

Then Minerva. “Who, me? Yer is sho plum crazy. 
Ainter seed how dat Precious Jackson liffer, frock lak 
she dun, an’ me do lak dat. Yer sho loss yer mine." 

And all through the audience were the same re- 
fusals. Without subjects the affair could not proceed, 
and there was nothing for Pete to do but to thank his 
audience and close the show. As the crowd filed out 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


313 


their sentiment was focussed in the remark made by Miz 
Passmore, who said: 

“Dat Pete Simmons sho er bad mans. He sho hipper- 
tise us alls ter mek us pay ten cent ter see wotter fool 
dat nigger gal Precious Jackson mekker herse’f. Ef yer 
lissum ter me, dat Precious Jackson doan hafter be hip- 
pertise ter mekker monkey out’n herse’f, an’ dar her mar 
tekkin on kase her fal show dem skeeter-net stockin’s. 
Yer kin fool some peoples, but yer kaint fool dis chick’n. 
Hippertise nuffin! Er sho spise er fool.” 


THE SERENADE. 

All three wore court plaster in strips over their faces, 
with cloth bandages about their heads. There was no 
need of the clerk to read out the charge of fighting. 
That was plain. 

The officer stated that he heard some screaming down 
in Dog Alley, and he ran as fast as he could to the lo- 
cality, not knowing but what a murder was being com- 
mitted. He found quite a crowd, and in it was the trio 
that now stood before the bar awaiting justice. As to 
who was to blame, he knew nothing, and therefore asked 
I that all be sworn against each other. This done, the 
| court knowing that the woman was at the bottom of the 
fuss, as she generally is, he asked her : 

“Tell me the truth about this fight.” 

“Dat jiss wotter gwineter do, Jedge. Er sho ainter 
gwineter tell you no lie. Mer mar wot daid she say, 
tell de trufe, dat wotyer do, tell de trufe effit kill yer. 
Kase dem wot teller lie ” 

“Stop that! Tell me about the fight.” 


314 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Well, Jedge, er izzer cornin' ter dat now. Gabe izzer 
benner cornin’ ter seed me fur er long time. Me’n him 
gwineter git marrit anner is mekkin de wed’n frock ter 
git marrit in. He corned ter mer house las’ night, an’ 
we wuzzer sottin ber de fi’ an’ jisser talkin’ w’en fuss 
noos yer know we hyeerder git-tar out dar on de stoop. 
Gabe say, who datter playin’ dat git-tar? Er say, how 
er know? Gabe say, yer kaint fool dis chick’n, dat some 
young mans wot surnad’n yer. Er say, dunno wot he 
want ter surnade me fur, er dunno who hit is, jiss dat 
berry way. Atter w’ile dey chune up de git-tar, an’ den 
he kermence ter sing. Dat make Gabe mad, an’ he poke 
he haid out’n de do’ an’ he say, yer jiss tek yerse’f ’way 
fum dis do’, diss mer gal wot lives hyere. Still de 
singin’ keep on jiss lak Gabe aint sayed nuffin’. Den ' 
Gabe he come back an’ he pick upper sticker wood an’ 
go out’n de house. Cose er hyeer um scufflin’ out dar, 
anner hyeer um say sump’n, butter dunno wot hit is, dey 
mek so much fuss. Atter w’ile er gots up an’ goes out 
de do’ anner fine Pete, dis de mans, an’ Gabe all tied up 
wid one emuvver, an’ cose er had ter tek Gabe’s part, 
kase me’n him gwineter git marrit, an’ dat how come er 
ter git de lick.” 

“Tell me about this fight, Pete, and be brief.” 

“Jedge, er is gwineter tell yer de startin’ uvvit. Er 
jiss got back fum Atlanty whar er benner wukkin sence 
long fo Chris’mus, anner tek mer git-tar anner go ter« 
Yamacraw ter lemme gal wot name Susan know er back] 
home an’ tekker ber ’sprise, anner go ter de house wot' 
she wuzzer livin’ at w’enner went ter Atlanty, anner 
play de chune wot she love so she know hits me come, 
back. Dunno nuffin ’bout Susan move ’way anner dunno 
nuffin ’bout dis Mary Ann livin’ dar. Fuss noos er 
knowed hyere come dis mans wot yer call Gabe an’ he. 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


315 


come down on mer haid widder sticker wood ker-blam! 
Er say, wot yer means ber dat, mans ? He say, er gwine- 
ter show yer, an’ wid dat he come ergin ker-blam! Er 
say, efer dooz dat ergin, er sho gwineter hu’t yer. He 
riz up de sticker wood ter come ergin an’ er buss de git- 
tar on he haid. Den we tie up. Dis yer gal she comes 
er runnin’ out de house an’ she p’ck up de sticker wood 
an’ jiss kase er couldn’t git loose fum dis nigger she 
lemme have hit on de haid ker-blam! Dat mo’n er kin 
stan’, Jedge. Er aint much uver han’ ter strack er 
oomans, but diss wuz de limit, anner juk loose fum dis 
mans anner tapper one fur luck. An’ dat all er knows 
’bout de fight, Jedge, cep’n mer git-tar all buss up an’ 
de poleeces fotch me up hyere.” 

“Now, Gabe, tell me your side of it.” 

“Well, Jedge, yer knows datter oomans izzer mouty 
cuyus t’ing. Deys mek out dey loves yer an’ you de 
onlies one, an’ yer kaint putter bitter ’pendence in um. 
Dey fool many er nigger datter way. Well, me’n Mary 
Ann wuzzer sottin dar ber de fi’ jiss lak she say, anner 
hyere de git-tar outside de do’, anner ax Mary Ann who 
dat? She say, how er know? jiss datter way. Jedge, 
she look jiss lak she knowed who dat playin’ de git-tar, 
anner pick upper sticker wood, jiss lak she say, anner 
goes out an’ de mans wouldn’t gimme no satterfacshun, 
an’ dat wot mek me do lakker do.” 

“It looks to me as though it was pure jealousy on 
your part, Gabe, and the woman seems to blame to some 
extent in not being more emphatic in her statement that 
the serenader was unknown to her. What was that 
guitar worth, Pete ?” 

“Er gin er mans ten dollar fur hit in Atlanty, Jedge.” 

“Gabe, if you will give Pete ten dollars with which to 
buy another guitar I will let you both off.” 


316 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Jedge, dat nigger nevvy guv no ten dollar fur dat 
git-tar. Hit nuffin but one er dese cheap git-tar dat yer 
kin git fur er dollar’n er ha’f.” 

“But I want Pete to hae a ten dollar guitar to com- 
pensate him for a broken head, and you either pay him 
ten dollars or go to the gang.” 

“How long er hafter stay on de gang, Jedge?” 

“Thirty days,” said the court. 

“Den gimme de thutty days, Jedge, er sho doan wants 
dat nigger ter see de color er mer money.” 

“Thirty days on the gang for Gabe, ten days for 
Mary Ann, and Pete, you are dismissed, but keep away 
from Mary Ann.” 


A TYPICAL CASE. 

“Why did you strike your wife?” sternly asked the 
court of Willie Bailey. The court was getting tired of 
hearing so many cases of wife beating, and was deter- 
mined to put a stop to so much of it. 

“Er iz gwineter tell de fuss stattin uvvit, Jedge ” 

“No, I want to know why you struck your wife ?” 

“Dat wotter wants ter tell yer, Jedge. De fuss stottin 
uvvit ” 

“I told you I did not want to know the first starting 
of it. Why did you strike your wife ?” 

“Jedge, er jiss bleege ter tell yer de fuss uvvit. Er 
comes home fum wuk mouty ti’ed anner ” 

“Are you going to answer my question?” 

“Wot yer ax me, Jedge?” 

“I asked you why you struck your wife, you know 
what I asked you.” 

“Didder strack mer wife?” 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 317 

“That was it. Now you know what I asked you, don’t 
you ?” 

“Please yer honor, Mister Jedge, dat wotter gwineter 
tell yer. De fuss stottin uwit ” 

“Your name Willie Bailey?” 

“Yassur, mer name Willie Bailey.” 

“Do you know that you are in court?” 

“Yassur, cose er knows er in cote.” 

“Well, Willie Bailey, if you do not answer my ques- 
tion I am going to send you to the stockade for contempt 
of court, do you hear that?” 

“Tempter cote! Wot dat, boss?” 

“Did you strike your wife?” 

“Yer means, Jedge, didder hitter?” 

“Yes, did you strike her, did you hit her, chastise her?” 

“Wot yer means her chastise her, Jedge?” 

“I am going to give you one more chance, did you 
strike your wife?” 

“Jedge, er ain got no wife — she daid.” 

“What does this mean, Mr. Officer? The docket reads 
Willie and Martha Bailey. Isn’t Martha Bailey your 
wife, Willie?” 

“She mar grammar. Mer wife dun daid so long er dun 
furgit bout hit. Yer nevvy ax me effer hit mer gram- 
mar.” 

“Why did you strike your grandmother?” 

“Er gwineter tell yer de fuss stottin uwit” — the court 
thought it the quickest route after all, to let him tell it 
his way — “er comes home ti’ed. Er wuks at de char- 
coal fac’ry. An grammar she say yer go right now’n 
tekker baff! Er gits me er panner water fum de well 
anner washes mer han’s, an’ she say, th’ow out dat water 
an’ git yer er tubber water fum de hot hole, an ” 

“What do you mean by the hot hole?” 


318 


100 STORIES IN BLACK 


“Down dar ber de sewer whar de steam fum de soap 
fac’ry comes out. De water alls de time hot an’ de wim- 
mens tek dat water ter tekker baff wid. Anner mouty 
ti’ed, butter doan wants ter haves any fuss wid grammar, 
she so or, anner gits de tub anner fotch hit fuller de hot 
water anner sots hit down in de room. Butter so ti’ed 
— er wuks so hod all day — datter lay down cross de baid, 
an fuss noos yer knowed dar er wuz fasser sleep. Stid- 
der shovin me an’ wakin me up, wot she do? She hit 
mer on de haid widder baid slat ! Dat ain no way ter 
waker mans up wot ti’ed an sleepy. Yer knowed dat 
yerse’f, Jedge.” 

“And you got very mad?” 

“Er sho did r 

“And you struck your grandmother ?” 

“Dat wot she say, Jedge, er ain newy sayed so yit.” 

“Did you strike your grandmother?” 

“Jiss lissun at dat! Dun tol’ yer alls bout hit, Jedge.” 

“Once more, did you strike your grandmother?” 

“Ef dey is any dat tempter cote in dis, er sho did.” 

“Fifteen dollars. A man that would strike his grand- 
mother is too contemptible to be called a man.” 

“Jedge, wuz yer evvy hit in de haid widder baid slat?” 

But the officers hurried him out of the room to prison. 


THE END. 

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